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PEEPS AT 
GREAT CITIES 



NEW YORK 



admiral farragut statue, macison square. page 75 
("flatiron" building in the distance) 




PEEPS AT GREAT CITIES 

NEW YORK 



BY 



HILDEGARDE HAWTHORNE 



WITH 

TWELVE FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS 

IN COLOUR 

BY 




MARTIN LEWIS 




» 



% 



/ 



fv-ty- 



CONTENTS 



CHAPTER 

I. THE SPIRIT OF THE CITY 
II. NEW AMSTERDAM 
III. REACHING NEW YORK . 
IV. TWO GREAT STATIONS . 
V. FOUR GREAT STREETS . 
VI. MORNING, AFTERNOON, AND 
VII. THE SKY-SCRAPERS 
VIII. CONEY ISLAND 
IX. SCHOOLS AND SUCH 
X. SHOPS, THEATRES, HOTELS 
XI. OTHER BUILDINGS, CHURCHES 
XII. IMPRESSIONS . 



NIGHT 



AND STATUES 



l'AGE 

I 



14 
19 
25 

39 
45 
5i 
56 

61 
69 
76 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

BY MARTIN LEWIS 

ADMIRAL FARRAGUT STATUE, MADISON SQUARE frontispiece 

FACING PAGE 

LOWER END OF THE CITY VIEW OVER ROOFS 



SINGER BUILDING, LOWER BROADWAY, AT NIGHT 

UNION SQUARE 

THE ELEVATED RAILWAY AT IIOTH STREET 
"DOWN AT coney" .... 
WASHINGTON ARCH ON A WET DAY 
BROOKLYN BRIDGE .... 

A BLIZZARD, 23RD STREET AND BROADWAY 
DECORATION DAY PARADE, RIVERSIDE DRIVE 
SKY-SCRAPERS LOWER NEW YORK FROM THE RIVER 



16 
25 
32 

41 
48 

57 
64 

73 
80 



th 



on tne cover 



Bird's-eye view of the City of New York and Greater 
New York, inside front cover 



Vll 



NEW YORK 

METROPOLIS OF AMERICA 
CHAPTER I 

THE SPIRIT OF THE CITY 

Perhaps it seems odd to say that a city is like a person, 
but it is true. For every city has a character, a quality 
of its own, and just as a man is not only his body and 
face, but something besides that shows itself in his way 
of doing things, of thinking and feeling, and in the 
way he affects other people, so, too, a city is not only 
a collection of streets, squares, houses, and other 
buildings, but a thing with a spirit of its own. And 
when you think of a city that you know very well, it 
is this spirit that comes to you ; and you find that you 
can love or hate a city, much as you can someone you 
are acquainted with. It seems to you a friend or an 
enemy — gay and beautiful, sad and ugly ; full of interest 
and life, or tiresome and cruel ; but always as something 
alive and real. 

This is because a city is not only the brick and 
mortar of which it is built, but also the sum of all its 
citizens ; for they have not only built what we may 

NY. I 



New York 

call its body with their hands, but its soul with their 
minds — that is, with their way of making and 
enforcing its laws, of enjoying themselves and getting 
along with each other as they go about their daily and 
nightly business, of showing their good or bad taste, 
and generally in the life they lead. 

New York, with other cities, has a spirit of its own. 
You notice it very soon after getting there ; but, of 
course, like everything else, it takes time to understand 
this personal side of the place, this individuality. And 
yet this side is by far the more interesting, and is truly 
New York. 

New York is gay, but not with the gaiety of Paris 
or Vienna, or of the Southern cities. It is a hard, busy 
gaiety, without the polished grace of the French capital 
or the childlike charm of NapJes. New York's gaiety 
is more that of a hard-worked and anxious man, 
who throws off his business cares and troubles for a 
little while, and goes in for what he calls " a good 
time." The English are said to take even their 
pleasures seriously ; and though New Yorkers don't 
do just that, they do take them in a hurried, restless 
fashion, and are too often rather rough than merry, as 
in the New Year and election merry-makings, that, 
though kindly enough, are more given to horseplay 
than real fun. 

New York lives largely in restaurants and theatres, 
dashes about in taxis and motors, crowds into the 
opera, goes to teas and dances, floats up and down 
Fifth Avenue in the afternoon and Broadway at night, 
blazes with electricity and resounds with noise. It 

2 



The Spirit of the City 

loves dash and brilliance, but above all it loves hurry. 
It will suffer almost any inconvenience except slowness. 
The restaurant that serves its meals in the shortest 
order, provided it is also gorgeous and has an orchestra, 
will be the best patronized ; for New York eats to 
music quite as much as it dances to it. The tall 
buildings must have express elevators or lifts, as we 
as the locals that stop at every floor. A citizen will 
change from a comfortably-filled subway local train 
into an express that is crammed to the doors in order 
to save five minutes, and will leap on or off a moving 
car rather than wait for it to stop, no matter what the 
risk of broken limbs. 

New York is nervous and frets at delays, and is so 
very much alive that it does not take time to live. It 
is restless, and is constantly changing things : tearing up 
streets in order to relay them with a different material ; 
tearing them up again to put in a new conduit, a new 
cable, a subway. It puts up a ten or twelve story 
building of stone and iron one year, and pulls it down 
the next to build another twice as high. Everything 
is on trial, nothing is finished, and a return after only 
a six-months absence will amaze you with old land- 
marks gone and new ones evident. 

New York's climate has something to do with this 
restlessness of mind and body ; for though it is most of 
the year radiantly clear and sparkling, it is subject to 
great extremes of heat and cold, the thermometer 
occasionally rising above ioo° F. in summer, and 
falling below zero in winter. Wild storms blow in 
from the Atlantic, thick with snow or fog, and western 

3 



New York 

blizzards sweep suddenly down, while quick changes 
are common. A warm, drizzly day of silver mist and 
shining pavements will be followed by an intense cold 
snap, or into the frozen weeks of January a day or two 
of May will drop, starting the buds on the park trees, 
and the birds to singing, and making the steam-heated 
apartments intolerably hot. 

But New York weather is often adorable : spring 
days, when the air is as soft and tender as any that blew 
in fabled Arcady, and fragrant with a smell of the sea, 
when every block of the Avenue is gay with flower- 
sellers, and the tall buildings gleam and sparkle in 
the sun ; winter days, when the softly falling snow 
swathes the city in its beautiful veil, and she looks like 
a dreaming queen in white and silver ; summer days, 
when a jolly sea-wind blows in from the ocean, and big 
white clouds race over the intense blue sky ; and 
autumn weeks as golden and as wholesome as a russet 
apple, with a frosty snap in the air and hoar-frost on 
the park lawns in the mornings. 

If there are other times when the half-frozen slush 
lies ankle-deep in the gutters, and the fierce winds 
shriek down the narrow streets, that are like mountain 
canyons between the sky-scrapers, whose lofty walls 
disappear into the murky sky — winds that blow people 
down, that overset carts and horses, smash plate-glass 
windows and tear off signs — New York takes these wild 
times rather calmly ; even though the surface cars are 
blocked by snow, the ferries are caught in the ice of 
the rivers and harbour, and the elevated trains struggle 
helplessly, sometimes colliding in the darkness of the 

4 



The Spirit of the City 

storm. For it is a picturesque sight, the city in such 
a state. Huge snow-ploughs are plunging heavily 
through drifts waist-high ; sleighs fly by with a jingle 
of bells ; a crowd collects around the struggling form 
of a fallen horse ; coal-waggons, drawn by four and even 
six horses, flounder through a side-street ; and the fury 
of the elements sends your blood singing through your 
veins, if you are young and strong. 

There are days that are harder to endure, however, 
when the heat lies like a pestilence on the town, and 
the streets blaze under the relentless sun. In the 
tenement quarters the children lie gasping on the fire- 
escapes, and the parks are full of people seeking the 
slight relief of green leaves and parched grass. In the 
business sections the men crawl along heavily, their 
coats hanging from their shoulders, their hats in their 
hands, and handkerchiefs stuffed into their collars. 
Wherever possible, they hug the narrow shade of 
noontide, even walking down the centre of the street 
where the elevated railroad throws a shadow. If there 
is a wind, it is like a sirocco, scorching hot, or else 
soggy with the humidity of the sea. 

On such days men fall at their work, and the 
ambulance constantly clangs through the streets. 
Electric fans whirl the hot air in offices and shops 
and restaurants, and the open cars are crowded with 
passengers, who often ride back and forth for the sake 
of the swift motion and its momentary coolness. 
Fortunately, such days are rare ; but they come, two 
or three at a time, and the city suffers terribly. 

These violent extremes and sudden changes are 

5 



New York 

reflected in the city's character. New York has a 
feverish touch. It may be energetically engaged one 
day in doing something it will just as energetically 
destroy the next. It is made up of opposites : gay 
but grim, impatient and yet long-suffering, capable of 
being extraordinarily generous and kind, but also bad- 
mannered and inconsiderate to a degree. It engages in 
new and splendid undertakings, hesitating at no amount 
of trouble, and, on the other hand, it allows expensive 
works to fail into disrepair for lack of a little money 
and care. New York takes a passionate interest in 
political arguments as they are retailed in its papers, 
and throngs the streets in real carnival fashion to watch 
the returns of an election ; yet it often neglects to go to 
the polls to vote on some measure very important to its 
health and civic prosperity. Full of contradictions, 
impulsive and careless, it nevertheless has something 
big and fine about it, like a man whose courage stops 
at nothing, and that enables it to re-engage in a fight 
in which it has just been worsted, sure of victory in 
the end ; or to tear down something on which it has 
spent much effort, if a better thing comes along. 

New York is cheerful and has a strong sense of 
humour, which, if it is tainted with vulgarity, is none 
the less a healthy humour. New York appears to 
delight in glaring accounts of its wrongdoings, and it 
laughs heartily at its own foolishness ; but it has a 
deep-seated pride in its greatness, as well as a strong 
determination to improve upon its shortcomings. 

It is developing a feeling for beauty and a sense 
of harmony, but in a new way — a way it takes time 

6 



The Spirit of the City 

to see and understand. It is already a beautiful city, 
but to many people this beauty is hidden — either 
because they are accustomed to looking for beauty in a 
different form, or because they have not learned to 
think of New York as anything but a place where 
work is to be done and life lived without thought 
of much else except that work. But the city is always 
alive, breathing, growing, changing day by day, yet 
remaining itself. It irritates you with its constant 
noise and rush, but it exhilarates you too. Possibly it 
is a bit hard and callous, but it is also hard-working, 
cheery, and brave. There is no " let-up " about it, but 
there is a deal of go-as-you-please, and it won't 
interfere with you or stare at you, however queerly you 
dress or act, so long as you don't clog its streets or get 
in its way. 

It has moments of rare loveliness, that seem given to 
you alone, and it has acres of mean ugliness. But 
it is always human, and with its colour and glitter it 
bewitches you into thinking that it is really happy. 
And once you begin to like it, you are its captive ; 
for its huge, moving, changing, impetuous spirit casts 
an increasing fascination over you ; you grow to need 
it ; you cannot forget it ; and if you leave it, you never 
cease to long to return. 

It is, moreover, exceedingly cosmopolitan. Half 
the nations of the world are represented in its popula- 
tion of over four millions. They have their quarters, 
where they reproduce to a certain extent the methods 
of life in the lands they came from. They have their 
own newspapers, cafes, shops, and theatres, even their 

7 



New York 

special laws. The Chinese quarter is second only 
to that in San Francisco, and is very picturesque. 
The Italians are numerous, as are the Poles and 
Russians, and have their festas and saints' days, their 
own priests and churches. There are many Turks 
and Greeks, and the Jewish population is immense. 
Altogether, one sometimes fancies that the real 
American in New York is as hard to find as hen's 
teeth, and in some parts of the city you can go for 
days without hearing a word of English or seeing 
an English sign. But of course this is not truly 
the case, for, in spite of its enormous foreign popula- 
tion, New York is thoroughly American. 



CHAPTER II 

N EW AMSTERDAM 

New York, judged by such standards as obtain in 
Europe or England, is not very old ; but it is one of 
the first American cities, although it began under 
another name and nationality. As you all know, 
Henry Hudson, an Englishman sailing in the Dutch 
service, discovered the harbour, and then sailed up the 
great river that has since borne his name. Following 
this discovery, the Dutch took possession of the land 
bordering upon the waters, and founded, on the 
southern end of Manhattan Island, the town of New 
Amsterdam. For many years New York was a Dutch 
city, with Governors sent over at first from the mother- 

8 




•fc*' "*?s 



fHE PALISADES." HUDSON RlVER. PAGE 9 



New Amsterdam 

country, and later elected by the people. Traces of 
this early occupancy are still to be found in the names 
of avenues and squares and hotels, and several New 
York families trace descent from the stout Hol- 
landers. 

New Amsterdam was a very picturesque and sleepy 
place, and its citizens lived in a most comfortable state. 
The trade with the Indians was profitable and the 
burghers were thrifty folk. The scenery about the 
bay and up the river was superb, as it is to-day. On 
the western bank of the Hudson, now the state of 
New Jersey, the Palisades, which are great cliffs, 
so-called because they truly resemble mighty walls 
of rock, lifted their precipitous sides 300 feet into 
the air, and between them and the beautifully wooded 
slopes of Manhattan the river, one of the most stately 
in the world, flowed majestically into the wide blue 
reaches of the bay. Opposite the town lay Staten 
Island, then covered with forests, and to the east Long 
Island stretched its 100 miles of verdure and white 
sand beaches. Far to the north the Catskill Mountains 
climbed to the clouds, and little settlements spread all 
the way up the river to their feet. Quaint legends 
were told of these wild mountains, the most familiar to 
us nowadays being the one of Rip Van Winkle and his 
twenty-year sleep. 

New Amsterdam was laid out in a haphazard sort of 
way, partly because it was the easiest method, and 
partly because various brooks, ponds and hills, now 
gone from the map, had to be considered. This con- 
fusion is still noticeable in the down-town region, 

NY. 9 2 



New York 

where the big business houses and the financial part of 
New York have their abiding-place. The streets are 
still narrow and twisted, and to-day, running between 
the great sky-scrapers, they seem like mountain gorges. 
In New Amsterdam they were green lanes and shaded 
roads, fronted by low gable-roofed homes standing in 
pretty gardens, and having high stoops where Mynheer 
sat of a summer evening and exchanged gossip with the 
passers-by. Indoors his frugal housewife and neat 
daughters prepared the excellent supper, or lingered 
over loom and spinning-wheel. There was no waste 
in the Dutch days, but there was no poverty either. 
With room and work for all, plenty of good tobacco 
and Hollands gin, and news from the old country once 
a month or so when the trading ships put in, life was 
a quiet and pleasant affair. 

The people were content, and the Governors ruled 
them kindly enough, though some of these Governors 
were peppery fellows, who must have things their own 
way. Old Peter Stuyvesant, with his wooden leg and 
very hot temper, has been immortalized in Washington 
Irving's " Knickerbocker's History of New York," a 
most amusing book, and this old gentleman was quite 
royal in the state he kept. 

But as a rule living was of the simplest, the 
simplicity of comfort, thrift and good sense, not of 
miserliness or lack of necessities. Many a funny story 
is told of those days, and old prints survive that show 
just how the little town looked, and how its sturdy 
inhabitants clothed themselves — the men in baggy 
knee-breeches, full-skirted coats and fine waistcoats, 

10 



New Amsterdam 

with wide-brimmed hats, and the women in bodices, 
with folded kerchiefs, many petticoats, and pretty caps. 
Everything was clean as Dutch energy and elbow- 
grease could make it, the very flowers in the front 
yards having a scrubbed appearance that was in 
harmony with the shining copper pots in the kitchens, 
and the fresh-faced, prim little boys and maids who 
went to school in the morning, dressed like small 
editions of their fathers and mothers. 

In the year 1674 England finally ousted Holland 
from the New World, and New Amsterdam became 
New York, beginning the second stage of its progress 
towards becoming what it is now — the most important 
city of the Western Hemisphere, containing a greater 
area than any other in the world, and exceeded in 
population by London alone. 

New York flourished under the English rule; its 
trading and shipping grew by bounds, and its social 
life took on a more formal and sumptuous character. 
The English Governors held high state, maintaining 
a real little Court. Fine estates were established along 
the Hudson and Harlem Rivers, and in due course 
a stage line was set up between Boston and New York, 
along what is called to this day the Boston Post Road. 
Nowadays this road is the favourite route with auto- 
mobiles, and runs through the most thickly settled 
parts of New England — a pleasant highway. Then it 
was a perilous wilderness trail, and many an adventure 
might befall the traveller between the two most impor- 
tant towns of the northern settlements. It took a week 
and more to make the trip, and inns were few and bad. 

11 



New York 

Though the Indians were, on the whole, friendly, 
accidents happened, and many a life was lost. 

Next came the Revolution, when the Colonies 
declared themselves free of English rule, and went to 
war with the Mother-Country, and New York played 
an important part in that long struggle. Finally, in 1 783, 
the British evacuated the city, and the American general, 
George Washington, marched in on their heels. There 
is a story to the effect that the red-coats, as they were 
called by the Yankee troops, had nailed their colours 
o the top of the tall Liberty Pole that stood in City 
Hall Park, and had then greased the pole to prevent 
the Americans from running up their own flag. But 
a New York soldier called David Van Arsdale managed 
to climb up and raise the Revolutionary colours, the 
Stars and Stripes. From that day to this, on Evacua- 
tion Day, November 15, at dawn, some descendant 
of this soldier's has hoisted the national colours on 
the Battery Pole. 

Very few traces of the English possession remain. 
The names they had given to the streets were changed ; 
the leaden statue of King George was pulled down and 
turned into bullets ; and the city entered upon its third 
phase. In a small section of the city, still known as 
Greenwich Village, lying west of Sixth Avenue and 
south of Thirteenth Street, a tangle of criss-cross streets 
still retain some of the old names, and curious old 
wooden houses, tiny shops, and decayed hostelries 
survive there, side by side with the new growth. But 
for the rest, the city took up the idea of numbering 
instead of naming the streets, a custom that has become 

12 



New Amsterdam 

prevalent in most American cities. It has the advantage 
of convenience, and is particularly suited to the con- 
formation of Manhattan, at least. 

The birth of New York, then, as we know it, had 
finally been accomplished, and nothing remained hence- 
forth except for it to grow and develop. This New 
York has continued to do, until it has not only spread 
over the whole of Manhattan Island, but northward 
across the Harlem as far as Yonkers, eastward for 
miles on Long Island, and southward to include Staten 
Island. 

Gone, indeed, is the leisurely old Knickerbocker 

atmosphere — the Dutch simplicity and strictness. Gone, 

too, the pomp and dignity of the British rule, the 

Governors in gold lace, the stately ways of colonial 

times. Gone the pretty wooden houses, the bowery 

lanes and gardens, the boating-parties along the Harlem 

and up the Bronx. Vanished with the mighty forests 

that topped the Palisades across the Hudson River or 

spread impenetrably northward ; with the Indians and 

the red-coats, and the strange wooden ships in the 

harbour. New Amsterdam went to bed soon after 

sunset and woke at cock-crow. Its quiet and contented 

folk clumped about in wooden shoon or in pumps with 

large silver buckles, moving slowly, all unhurried. 

They milked their cows in their little yards, and grazed 

them in Battery Park, and when the day's work was 

done the young men pitched quoits and played bowls 

in Bowling Green. New Amsterdam was a pretty and 

picturesque town, and apparently a happy and prosperous 

one. But it has disappeared as completely as the 

13 



New York 

nameless Indian village it replaced, and the New York 
of to-day has forgotten its existence, the few Dutch 
names that have survived having for the bulk of the 
population no historical meaning whatsoever. New 
York has not been as careful of its traditions as Boston 
of hers, and it is only lately that any attempt to save 
old landmarks has been made. The old town, having 
stood in the most valuable part of the island, has been 
buried deep under the giant buildings that have sprung 
up there, and in the haste and fury of modern life 
sentiment has had little chance. 



CHAPTER III 

REACHING NEW YORK 

Hudson arrived at the site of what is now New York 
in a queer high-pooped vessel called the Half-Moon, a 
replica of which was made for the Hudson-Fulton 
celebration of 1909, and sent over from Holland. 
Very odd indeed it looked sailing up between the 
mighty row of battleships from all over the world that 
stretched for a couple of miles up the Hudson, and as 
one gazed at it, the enterprise and courage of the men 
who voyaged so far in such frail craft struck the mind 
forcibly. For many a year after Hudson's day the sea 
was the only route to the spot that is now the centre of 
the greatest railroad system on earth. New York is 
still the chief port of the western world, however, and 
most of the travellers from foreign lands arrive by way 



Reaching New York 

of the ocean. But its two immense stations, the 
Pennsylvania and the New York Central, bring the 
traffic of the continent straight into the heart of the 
city, the trains running underground, and, in the case of 
the Pennsylvania lines, under water by electric traction 
— a wonderful feat of engineering that is only now in 
process of completion. 

But the finest entrance is still by way of the sea, with 
the superb approach down the bay through the narrows, 
past Quarantine, where the health officers board in- 
coming vessels to make sure that no one ill of an 
incurable or contagious disease shall be admitted, 
and Ellis Island, where the immigrants are landed. 
This route also passes Bedloe's Island, the small 
bit of ground on which stands the colossal statue of 
" Liberty Enlightening the World," by Bartholdi, a 
gift to the Republic of America from the Republic of 
France. This imposing Liberty is the largest statue in 
the world, and it is a splendid sight, lifting its torch 
305 feet into the air, robed in classic draperies, a calm 
and gracious figure. It is visible for miles, not only 
from the sea, but from the encircling shores of New 
York and New Jersey. 

After passing Ellis Island, the steamer enters the 
most crowded part of the harbour. To the east the 
great bridges connecting the borough of Brooklyn on 
Long Island with that of Manhattan toss their graceful 
arches across the arm of the sea known as East River. 
Ferries to Staten Island, Governor's Island, the military 
post, headquarters of the Military Department of the 
Atlantic, and to New Jersey and Brooklyn, are plying 

15 



New York 

in all directions, their decks jammed with people. 
Tug-boats, trading and fishing schooners, heavy 
oystermen, brigs and barques with snowy sails, slim 
steam-yachts, coastwise steamers, and nameless little 
craft of every description, together with other ocean 
steamers, plough back and forth through the dancing 
waters, their brass and steel glinting in the sunlight. 

Before you lies the crowded down-town section, with 
its miraculous sky-scrapers towering hundreds of feet 
into the blue sky, airy banners of snowy steam floating 
from their tops, and, at the water's edge, the green 
patch of Battery Park, with the throngs of hurrying 
humanity streaming along the side-walks. 

Majestically your own ship shoulders its way along, 
assisted by the busy little tugs with high-sounding 
names and the most ear-piercing of whistles. Every- 
where is light, life, and motion, the intense activity 
that is characteristic of the city, and which strikes the 
new-comer into bewilderment until he gets used to the 
seeming confusion of it all, and finds that somehow the 
madness resolves itself into method. 

The wharves of New York and Hoboken, where 
many of the liners land, are ugly, dark, and congested. 
Down their chilly length, after the dreaded Customs 
inspection, taxis and cabs whirl the traveller to the 
hotels up-town, making their difficult way through the 
narrow streets of the business section to the freer 
spaces and wider avenues of the residence and 
amusement quarter. If the day is a typical New York 
day, the first impression, beyond that given by the 
tall buildings, is the clear radiance of the atmosphere. 

16 




LOWER END OF THE CITY: VIEW OVER ROOFS. PAGES 16 AND 15 



Reaching New York 

But there are other ways of getting to New York 
besides the railways and the ocean. Regular steamship 
lines run up and down the Hudson River as far as 
Albany, 120 miles away, connecting there with 
trains to Canada and the West. The trip down the 
river is a fine one, the scenery being more beautiful 
than that of the famous Rhine, although the added 
interest of ancient castles and poetic legend is lacking. 
There are both day and night lines, the boats that go 
by night carrying search-lights, which are thrown on 
the shores with an eerie effect as the steamer ploughs 
on her way. 

A great system of trolly-cars, as the overhead 
electric trams are called in America, binds the city 
closely to all the outlying districts, connecting with the 
elevated and subway roads at the city limits. Immense 
crowds use these trollies every morning and evening, 
coming in from the suburbs to their work-places and 
offices. The cars run practically all day and night at 
short intervals. At the various towns they connect with 
other lines, and this system extends as far as Boston, to 
the north, and will soon cover Long Island, as it 
already has New Jersey, where you may reach 
Philadelphia, in Pennsylvania, by the trolly. Naturally 
the trip to these distant cities, counting the waits 
and missed connections, takes a long while ; but it is 
often followed by persons for the fun of it, and because 
of the charming country scenery through which the cars 
run. A very delightful week can be spent going to 
Boston, with stops in the many inns along the route 
and sight- seeing excursions by the way. Boston is 

ny. 17 3 



New York 

about 200 miles from New York as the crow fries, 
but of course the trolly route is at least double 
that distance. It leads through many an elm-shaded 
town and country village, past lakes and the shores of 
the Sound, and over rivers, and through the fertile 
valleys and green woods of three States. Much of it is 
along the old Boston Post Road, of which I have 
already spoken. 

So, you see, there are several ways of coming to New 
York, and all have advantages. The railroad way is 
easiest, but since the trains dive below the surface before 
actually getting into the city, you lose the approach. 

To be sure, it is rather delightful to find oneself, 
right after the run through the electric-lighted tunnel, 
in the very middle of the city. A few moments before 
you were in the dingy precincts of the last stopping- 
place in New Jersey, Harrison, or staring through the 
window at the untidy confusion to be seen from the 
bridge across the Harlem, if you are coming from the 
North. And presto ! here you are on Thirty-Fourth 
or Forty-Second Street, with the mighty city reaching 
for miles around. It seems like magic, as though you 
might have got hold of Aladdin's wonderful lamp and 
made a wish that had suddenly been fulfilled. 

At any rate, entering by whichever way you choose, 
we are now well within the New York of to-day, and the 
best thing to do is to get about the business of seeing 
it as soon as possible. And since I have given you a 
glimpse of the wharves, the next thing to look at will 
be the two big stations, one of which has only just 
been completed, while the other is still building. 

18 



Two Great Stations 

CHAPTER IV 

TWO GREAT STATIONS 

Railway-stations are good places in which to study 
the life of a city, for, though they are chiefly built to 
get away from, and though everybody who comes 
to them is hurrying somewhere else, and usually 
lives in another place, they yet have peculiar character- 
istics belonging to their special environment, ways of 
meeting particular conditions and fulfilling various 
demands. 

Most people like stations, with their exciting 
suggestions of travel and their stir and bustle, even 
though they are too often ugly, smoky places, chilly and 
dark, and so noisy that one can't hear oneself think. 

But the two great new stations in New York, of 
which the Pennsylvania is just completed, while much 
still remains to be accomplished on the Central, are like 
palaces, and no pains have been spared to make them 
as beautiful as they are spacious and convenient. The 
most modern ideas have been followed in their con- 
struction, and time- and trouble- saving devices are 
multiplied within them. 

The Pennsylvania Station is the largest building 
in the world devoted solely to railway traffic. The 
building itself covers close upon eight acres of land, 
while the underground station and yards occupy 
twenty-eight acres. It stands between Thirty-First and 
Thirty-Third Streets and Seventh and Eighth Avenues, 
only a block from Broadway and the crowded shopping, 

19 



New York 

theatre, and hotel district of that part of town. It 
is connected with New Jersey and the West by 
immense steel tubes running under the Hudson River, 
the incoming trains being attached to electric engines 
at Harrison, five miles from the banks of the Hudson, 
in New Jersey, and proceeding thence under the river 
and the city to the station, and then on again, across 
the entire town, under the broad East River and into 
Long Island. The tubes and tunnels are the last word 
in modern engineering, and it is hard to believe, as 
you look at the two rivers from the deck of a boat, 
that the trains are thundering along underneath them, 
as they have whirled under the city itself. 

As for the building, it is one of the finest in the 
city, or in the country, for that matter. It is classic in 
form, the Seventh Avenue facade being adorned with a 
double row of immense granite columns in the Doric 
style, with pediments above, and there are colonnades 
on the Eighth Avenue side, and columned entrances on 
the north and south. The cool grey granite of the 
entire building is grateful to the eye, and the noble 
proportions full of a calm dignity. 

In the centre of the Seventh Avenue frontage is the 
huge entrance for foot-passengers, which leads into an 
arcade bordered by shops selling articles calculated 
especially to meet the requirements of the travelling 
public — sweets, fruits, books and magazines, flowers, 
drugs and what not. This arcade is wide, with 
pilastered arches and a domed roof, and at its farther 
end are lunch- and dining-rooms reached through 
a big loggia, from which steps lead down into 

20 



Two Great Stations 

the vast general waiting-room. This great hall has 
a beautifully vaulted roof, 150 feet high, supported 
on splendid Corinthian columns, forming arches that 
frame windows in the upper part, beneath which the 
wall-spaces are decorated with paintings by Jules 
Guerin representing sections of the earth's surface. In 
this room are the ticket-offices, the baggage-checking 
windows, telegraph and telephone service, and from it 
open the special waiting-rooms for men and women, 
with withdrawing, writing, and smoking rooms, charm- 
ingly and cosily treated, having comfortable lounges 
and little tables and harmonious colour-schemes that 
rest the tired traveller. There is an emergency 
hospital, also, with first aid to the injured and a doctor 
always available ; there are automatic telephone booths, 
a news-stand and an information bureau. And if you 
can think of anything that is not there, it's more than 
the New Yorker has yet managed to do. 

From this immense room a wide thoroughfare, 
reached through many doors, leads to the concourse, 
below which is the level where the trains stand. 
Stairways lead to these lower platforms, the passengers 
passing through gates that are plainly marked with 
the time of leaving and the destination of each train. 
In addition to the stairs, there are escalators, or moving 
stairways and lifts, to expedite the traveller on his way, 
and special entrances for cabs and taxis. The interior 
of the station is finished in stone and cement of a 
mellow creamy tone, and it is heated and ventilated to 
perfection. Of course, as the trains are run by 
electricity, there is no smoke to be considered. 

21 



New York 

The simplicity, effectiveness, and beauty of this 
superb station make it a delight to enter. However 
crowded it is, it remains spacious, quiet, composed. It 
is the gateway to a continent — immense, secure, built 
of the most enduring materials, capable of handling 
thousands without confusion. Through subways, 
already built or soon to be constructed, it connects 
with every portion of the city, draws the suburban 
traffic from Long Island and New Jersey, and by its 
great trunk system reaches to every part of the South 
and West, as far as Texas and Mexico, California and 
Alaska, and across the Northern boundaries into 
Canada. 

To sit and watch the crowds that pass through it is 
to see persons from all over the world, who meet and 
mingle here for a brief instant, and then scatter in 
every direction. In one corner, perhaps, there is a 
group of Italians just arrived from the Old World, 
huddled together like sheep, with tickets pinned to 
them. The women wear bright shawls over their 
heads and lead black-eyed children by the hand. The 
men have their legs wrapped in cloths, and look out 
under shaggy hair upon the unfamiliar scene, oc- 
casionally bursting into excited talk and gesticulation. 
Near-by two Chinamen, in their Oriental costume, their 
pigtails coiled up under their funny round hats, are 
buying tickets at a window, speaking pidgin-English 
to the imperturbable clerk. Commuters, as the 
residents of the nearer towns and villages are called, 
who use the roads daily and get a reduced fare or 
commutation-ticket in consequence, pour in a steady 

22 



Two Great Stations 

stream through the arched entrances, and rush wildly 
for their trains, disappearing down the various stairs, 
or stopping for an instant at the news-stand for the 
latest edition of the evening papers, with their flaming 
headlines in red ink. Country-folk, in dowdy or over- 
smart clothes, come in rather hesitantly, looking about 
them in a dazed way or crowding to the information 
booth. School-children enter in groups, laughing and 
larking, and usually chewing gum. Frantic men and 
women hunt for a lost friend. 

At every other minute men in uniform call out 
departing trains in sonorous voices, with the stops to 
be made : " Five-thir-rty express for Pittsburgh and the 
West— Philadelphia the first stop— on track number 
s i x _all abo-a-a-ard." Or " Long Island local on track 
seventeen — all stops — all abo-a-a-ard." As he calls 
detachments of people start for the gates, rushing 
through the doors into the concourse. Hundreds 
of feet tramp by ; there is a murmur of voices and the 
muffled sound of the hidden trains below. Groups 
take leave of each other,: some weep, some smile and 
call out parting messages. A wedding-party arrives, 
the groom and bride scattering rice with every footstep, 
and striving to seem unembarrassed, the friends who 
have come to see them off laughing and talking. 
A nice old black Southern "mammie," as the coloured 
nurses are called, watches over a baby while the 
parents go to the lunch-room for a bite to eat. Her 
head is bound with a bright bandanna, and she cuddles 
the child, crooning a queer old melody, quite undis- 
turbed by the hurry and noise around her. Above 

23 



New York 

soar the great stone pillars supporting the vast arches 
of the roof. A mighty clock marks the passing hour, 
and at each tick of its huge mechanism some hasten 
out, others rush in. It is a world in miniature, 
with Father Time for King. Meetings and partings, 
laughter and tears, brides, old folks, children, workers 
and amusement-seekers, white, black and yellow races, 
all come and go through these portals. And you can 
spend an hour or two of the greatest interest looking 
on at it all. 

The Central Station, at Forty- Second Street, between 
Fourth and Lexington Avenues, on the east side of 
town, is even more central in location than its great 
rival. Here the trains enter and depart on two 
levels, far below the city's humming life. The old 
station, long since proven too small for the city's 
needs, is being demolished, and as it goes down the 
new one springs up, a giant structure which will be 
many stories in height and comprise offices and 
business suites besides the station proper. It is to be 
built of light-toned marble and brick, on steel girders, 
and will be an architectural adornment to New York, 
equal in beauty to, though utterly different in form 
from, the " Pennsy " building, as the other station is 
affectionately termed. Here, too, no trouble is being 
spared to meet every possible requirement — not only 
for the present needs, but for the far heavier demands 
of the near future. 

New York is justly proud of these two new build- 
ings, and of the enterprise and skill that made them 
possible. Through them pulses the life and move- 

24 



FFF 




SINGER BUILDING, LOWER BROADWAY AT NIGHT PAGES 2? AND 50 



Four Great Streets 

ment, the ebb and flow, of an entire continent. The 
freight that feeds the millions of citizens and provides 
their means of life arrives largely on their tracks, and 
upon their efficiency and honesty depend to an almost 
unimaginable extent the health and comfort of all New 
York. 



CHAPTER V 

FOUR GREAT STREETS 

City streets, though there are neither hills nor streams, 
woods nor meadows, to diversify them, are yet quite as 
various in aspect, and possibly in character, as are any 
country roads wandering far over the land or by the 
sea. In the old days it was necessary for a city to be 
as compact as a single building, in order that a defensive 
wall might surround it, and streets were as narrow as 
was possible, while still leaving room to get through 
them, twisting and turning upon themselves in a tangle 
of loops, ending in blind alleys, or even clambering up 
steps, in order to keep as close each to each as could 
be managed. Most of the European cities began as 
medieval towns and almost fortresses. But in America 
the greater number of the cities have been constructed 
without any restrictions as to space or necessity for 
defence, and they are generally built on a regular plan, 
modified to a greater or less degree by their natural 
surroundings. Their streets, instead of having names, 
are numbered, and convenience, not picturesqueness, 
has been the aim followed. 

ny. 25 4 



New York 

New York City proper is comprised within the 
borough of Manhattan, and is situated on the long, 
narrow island of the same name. This island is about 
thirteen miles long, by from nearly two and a half to 
less than half a mile wide. At its southern end it 
tapers almost to a point, and again at the north, 
above Hundred-and-Twenty-Fifth Street, where the 
Harlem River, that makes its northern boundary, 
slopes from the Hudson to Long Island Sound. 
Above this section lies the borough of the Bronx. 
Over on Long Island are the borough of Brooklyn and 
the borough of Queens, and south of Manhattan 
Island, comprising the whole of Staten Island, is the 
borough of Richmond. These five boroughs together 
make up what is known as Greater New York, and 
combine into an area larger than that of any other city 
on earth. But New York to the New Yorker is the 
borough of Manhattan, and on that long and narrow 
island lies the real city. The other boroughs are but 
partially built up, and large portions of them are still 
nothing but country, except Brooklyn, which is a great 
city in itself, and goes by the name of the " City of 
Homes," or the " City of Churches," for it is in Brooklyn 
that an enormous part of the population lives, coming 
across the bridges and ferries and through the subways 
to its business on Manhattan every morning, and 
crowding back at night. 

The old part of New York lies in the southern 
portion of Manhattan, and there the streets are narrow, 
twisted, and confused, as in the towns of the Old World. 
But the rest has been laid out in straight lines, and, 

26 



Four Great Streets 

with but few exceptions, all the streets and avenues are 
numbered, the streets running east and west, the 
avenues north and south, with Fifth Avenue as the 
dividing-line. Each cross-street has thus an east and 
west section, with the house numbers growing greater in 
both directions from the Avenue toward the two rivers. 
Once this plan is understood, New York is a very 
simple place to find one's way about in. 

But there is one street in the city that does not 
follow a straight line, and that is Broadway, New 
York's most famous thoroughfare. This great street 
is the longest in the world, running all the way from 
the Battery, at the southern point of Manhattan, to the 
city of Yonkers, in the north. It slants across the city 
in a general north-westerly direction, cutting most of 
the avenues on its way, and it is extraordinarily different 
in appearance in the various parts of its length. 

Broadway is remarkable in many ways. In the 
business section, called "Down-town," it runs between 
the dizzy heights of the sky-scrapers, that tower twenty 
odd stories on either hand — marvellous examples of 
man's ingenuity and conquest of difficulties. It starts 
within sight of the dancing waters of the harbour in 
the green lawns of Battery Park, and leads past many 
of the city's public buildings, its oldest churches, past 
the City Hall and its pretty park, where stands the 
statue of Nathan Hale, on through the shopping region, 
still guarded by the tall sky-scrapers to right and left 
— among them the astonishing Singer building — on to 
the chestnuts and flower-beds of Union Square, at 
Fourteenth Street, and on again to Twenty-Third 

27 



New York 

Street, where stands the famous Flatiron Building. 
At this point Broadway looks its best. 

Twenty-Third is one of the chief shopping streets, 
very gay and crowded and spacious. Here begins the 
region of the great shops and the theatres, the hotels 
and apartment-houses, and you may look across the 
beautiful tree-planted expanse of Madison Square to 
the wonderful Metropolitan Building, with its lofty 
white tower, whose great clock is 350 feet above the 
level of the street, while the tower itself is 700 feet 
high. 

On the same side of the Square, and farther north, 
is the tawny Madison Square Gardens Building, with 
its graceful Spanish tower and golden Diana. Straight 
north runs Fifth Avenue, thronged with gay traffic, 
full of life and motion, brilliant in the sunlight, its 
upward slope visible for many blocks. And toward 
the north-west goes Broadway itself, called, from this 
point on to beyond the Times Building at Forty- 
Second Street, " The Great White Way," because of 
the blaze of electric light that illuminates it by night. 
For all that part of it is a solid line of shops, cafes, 
hotels, and play-houses, and here the entire city comes 
to enjoy itself as soon as darkness falls on the rest of 
Nature. 

The variety of the electric signs and lights displayed 
here strikes a visitor dumb with surprise. It is a river 
of light — light of many colours, light in constant motion. 
Signs representing all manner of things, and advertising 
everything in the world, blaze and dance before you 
on the house-fronts or higher up, supported by immense 

28 



Four Great Streets 

frames. Here a girl with fluttering skirts, holding an 
umbrella over her head as a protection against a fiery 
rain-storm, is dazzlingly outlined against the black sky. 
There a revolving wheel is making intricate patterns 
of changing form and colour. Over the theatres the 
names of plays and players flame in glittering letters ; 
in another place, a circus is advertised by a fiery horse 
that appears to gallop, while a fiery lady on his back 
leaps through a hoop of silver lights. Sentences write 
themselves in the air in white or green or scarlet, and 
vanish again ; coloured serpents writhe up long poles, 
to disappear in a shower of stars and start once more. 
All the shop-windows and the restaurants are brilliant, 
and the street itself is crowded with vehicles, each with 
its lamps. The great white globes of the Brush-lights 
and the odd glow of the artificial sunshine also in use 
mingle, and cast amazing shadows of the moving 
throngs. Far up toward the sky, most of its windows 
alight, climbs the beautiful tower of the Times Build- 
ing, and near it the lovely illuminations of the Astor 
and the Knickerbocker Hotels shed a soft glow. 
Newsboys dart in and out among the passers-by, 
screaming the latest extras ; ticket speculators haunt 
the pavements before the theatres ; persons of all sorts 
jostle each other, linger at the window displays, or 
surround some fakir selling a toy or a notion, or listen, 
half amused, half serious, to the music and songs of a 
Salvation Army group. 

The squares through which Broadway slants, and 
that add so greatly to the city's beauty, used to be 
potters' fields, where the pauper dead were buried. 

29 



New York 

As the city grew northward, these sad places changed 
into little parks full of flowers, with fountains and 
seats, and nowadays these benches are the resorts of 
thousands in the spring, summer, and fall. And often, 
at night, they become once more the refuge of the 
utterly poor and homeless ; only now it is the sleep of 
exhaustion, not of death, for which the paupers come. 

North of Fiftieth Street, Broadway becomes more 
and more a residential avenue, bordered by huge 
apartment buildings and family hotels, and grows 
wider ; for, despite its name, its southern sections are 
narrow compared with the city's other avenues. 

The second of New York's remarkable streets is 
Fifth Avenue, which, beginning at Washington Square, 
at Fourth Street, runs north for six miles, past Central 
Park to the Harlem River. Fifth Avenue is the city's 
fashionable thoroughfare, and is fronted by its finest 
clubs and hotels, churches and libraries, and its most 
exclusive shops. Immense green double-decker electric 
stages ply up and down the Avenue, and a ride on one 
of these gives an excellent opportunity for seeing the 
flower of the town's population of smart and brilliant 
people busy amusing themselves, drifting past on foot 
or in motor-car and carriage, going in and out of the 
shops and the picture shows, the tea-places and the 
clubs. 

At the beginning of the Avenue is the Washington 
Arch, designed by Stanford White to commemorate 
the inauguration of George Washington as first 
President of the United States at the centennial 
celebration in 1889. From the Arch to Fourteenth 

30 



Four Great Streets 

Street the Avenue moves between dignified houses, 
where New York's oldest families still reside, the fine 
old buildings having a restful calm and spaciousness 
that obtains hardly anywhere else, often standing in old 
gardens, over whose walls trees lean. But above this 
short portion the business interests have taken posses- 
sion, and the sky-scrapers are appearing more and more 
quickly, rushing upward with the rapidity of such work 
in New York. 

At Twenty-Third Street, Fifth Avenue crosses Broad- 
way, and has the Flatiron on the east and the Fifth 
Avenue Building, a huge place with arcades, shops, 
and offices, on the west. From here on it assumes its 
distinctive character of fashionable activity. At Thirty- 
Fourth Street it passes the famous Waldorf-Astoria 
Hotel, while at Fortieth Street the splendid new Public 
Library extends for two blocks, its white marble facade 
and fine columns and its beautiful approaches making 
one of the finest sights in the city. From there the 
Avenue sweeps on between magnificent buildings, 
among which are the Catholic Cathedral, the St. Regis 
and Gotham Hotels, Delmonico's and Sherry's, the 
University Club, and the residences of the Vanderbilts 
and other of New York's rich citizens. At Fifty- 
Eighth and Fifty-Ninth Streets is the open space of 
the Plaza, just beyond being the main entrance to 
Central Park. This Plaza is remarkable for its archi- 
tectural surroundings. To the east are the large Savoy 
and Netherland Hotels, to the south the Cornelius 
Vanderbilt house, in its large garden, and the whole 
western side is occupied by the towering Plaza Hotel, 

3i 



New York 

perhaps the most beautiful building of the sky-scraper 
type ever erected. North of Fifty-Ninth Street the 
Avenue runs between Central Park on the west and 
a row of fine private dwellings and high-priced apart- 
ment-houses on the east. At Seventy-Ninth Street is 
the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Beyond the Park 
Fifth Avenue degenerates into a cheap street of cheap 
buildings, except where the pretty and hilly little 
Mount Morris Park breaks in at Hundred-and- 
Twentieth Street. 

Fifth Avenue is rapidly becoming one of the 
beautiful streets of the »vorld. At present it is still 
largely in process of reconstruction, where the new is 
replacing the old. The new plan, to build with light 
stone and brick, is being consistently followed, and it 
makes the street particularly gay and brilliant to the 
eye. Five o'clock of a clear afternoon in early winter 
is the ideal moment to see the Avenue. The crisp air 
seems charged with electricity, so filled it is with life 
and vigour, and the great street is crowded from end 
to end. Hansoms, motors, victorias, cabs and taxis, 
broughams and light trotting-waggons, on their way to 
and from the Park and the Speedway, pass in two con- 
tinuous streams. With a fanfaronade of the horn, a 
coach swings gaily down, behind its handsome horses, 
and draws up with a flourish at the Holland House, 
one of the city's oldest and most conservative hostelries. 
Dominating the traffic, the mounted and foot police 
stand between the swirling lines of vehicles, controlling 
them with signs or the shrill whistle that gives the 
signal to halt or move on. They are fine-looking men, 

32 



Four Great Streets 

the pick of the force, and in their close-fitting dark 
blue uniforms and helmets, or visored caps, present a 
natty, soldierly appearance. Then, there are the street- 
cleaners in white, with brushes and little hand-carts on 
two wheels. 

Quite as crowded as the centre of the Avenue are 
the pavements. Women dressed in the extreme of 
fashion, men of cosmopolitan types, children with their 
parents or governesses, visiting celebrities in fur over- 
coats, servants in liveries, the ever-present small boy 
(usually on roller-skates), workmen taking a look at the 
gaiety as they go home after the day's work, dogs on 
leashes — what a medley, indeed, moving along in the 
brisk American fashion, thronging the shops, pouring 
in and out of the various picture shows, arriving at 
and departing from the hotels and clubs ! 

Everywhere liveliness, motion, chatter. Presently 
the great silvery globes of the Brush-lamps, running in 
double rows on either side of the Avenue, break into 
light, and the yellow glow of the shop and hotel 
windows streams out across the pavements. The 
carriages add their lights, that are reflected in the 
shining black asphalt. The uneven, gigantic sky-line 
reveals windows high in the air, or a dark steeple 
silhouetted against the evening rose, and suddenly 
drops to the four- story level of a group of brown stone 
houses dating from the last generation. If you are on 
top of one of the huge stages, or buses, as it shoulders 
and sways its way through the sea of smaller craft, you 
feel as though you were aboard some great galleon, 
and the roar and hum of life is like the ocean. 

ny. 33 5 



New York 

Up at Fifty-Ninth Street Central Park looks misty in 
the twilight, and the wide expanse of sky is full of 
delicate colour. Beyond this point the crowd grows less, 
switching off into the side-streets or turning back the 
way it came. Your bus swings along more quietly 
between the houses where the maids are lighting the 
lamps, and before whose doors motors and carriages 
wait, and the darkening reaches of the Park, where 
white lights glimmer through the trees or shine 
reflected in the lake. The big elms lift their graceful, 
slender boughs high upward, and the first stars begin 
to twinkle here and there. A peace and quiet falls on 
you, the city sounds grow faint, and as you swing 
along you dream of the country, which seems to have 
stolen down from far away to rest awhile on the 
broad lawns and rocky, tree-grown hills of the Park 
beside you. 

A couple of hours later Fifth Avenue is practically 
deserted. The cates and restaurants of Broadway and 
their own homes have drawn the people away. A few 
cabs or taxis skim over the shining asphalt, unchecked 
by the police, who have almost all gone too. Most of 
the shops are dark, and the hotels, whose entrances are 
on the side-streets, do not go in for electrical displays, 
as on Broadway, though their big windows shine 
cheerily. But the pearly chains of double-globed 
lamps are now in undisputed possession of the Avenue, 
that looks particularly lovely in its quietness. You can 
saunter along it at present undisturbed by anyone, un- 
less possibly some beggar mutters a plea for heJp. A 
short distance away, and Broadway is thundering with 

34 



Four Great Streets 

life, but here a grey and silver repose falls tenderly 
upon the spirit. 

Riverside Drive is the third of New York's repre- 
sentative streets. Sir Henry Irving said of this beautiful 
avenue that it was the finest residential street in the 
world. Its natural advantages are many. It is laid out 
on the slopes and bluffs of the Hudson for three miles, 
extending from Seventy - Second to Hundred- and - 
Thirtieth Streets, and is very wide and perfectly graded, 
with rows of trees separating it into sections for foot, 
horseback, and vehicle use. On the river-side a noble 
park slopes down abruptly, planted with flowering 
shrubs and trees, many of which are the ancient forest- 
trees remaining from the old days, when this part of 
New York was still a wilderness. Flights of stone 
steps and winding paths lead through this park down to 
the river. But, unfortunately, the tracks of a railroad 
intervene between park and stream, although they are 
not very visible, owing to the sharpness of the slope 
and the many trees. A terraced arcade is to be built 
over these tracks in the near future, however, and then 
they will be entirely hidden. Boat-clubs have built 
pretty houses on the bank, attained by bridges over 
the tracks, and in summer the river is crowded with 
yachts and pleasure-boats of all descriptions. 

The view of the river itself is wonderfully beautiful. 
The noble and precipitous cliffs of the Jersey Palisades, 
increasing in height toward the north, mirror their dark 
and rugged sides in the slow-moving water, and at 
night the Jersey lights make a lovely picture. The 
Drive itself swings along in gentle curves, and at 

35 



New York 

Grant's tomb, almost at the end of its extent, rising 
gently all the way, it is as much as 130 feet above the 
Hudson River. 

This tomb is of white Maine granite, the interior of 
white marble, and has a square foundation, from which 
rises a pointed dome, supported on slender Ionic 
columns. There are larger columns about the founda- 
tion on all four sides, and wide flights of low steps 
lead to the columned entrance. About the tomb the 
Drive sweeps grandly, returning upon itself. Broad 
lawns surround it, and it commands a splendid view 
far up the stream and down the Drive and eastward 
across the city. Within, in two sarcophagi of polished 
red porphyry, seen through a circular opening in the 
floor, as at Napoleon's tomb in Paris, the great 
General of the American Civil War and his wife lie 
side by side. The gallery is supported on arches, and 
the dome rises in a fine curve. The place is flooded 
with a mellow light, and produces, in its calm 
simplicity and repose, a feeling of solemnity that 
touches the heart. 

Over the entrance, between two figures emblematic 
of Peace and War, are inscribed Grant's own words : 
" Let us have Peace." 

Farther down the Drive are other statues and 
monuments, and on its eastern side the most magnifi- 
cent of New York's private houses, many millionaires 
having selected the Drive as the most attractive spot in 
the city. There are also some superb apartment- 
houses, approaching the sky-scraper type, and faced with 
fine marbles and other handsome stones. Up this 

36 



Four Great Streets 

Drive run the stages from Fifth Avenue, and it is the 
favourite run for automobiles and carriages, particularly 
since the viaduct over the Manhattan Valley above 
Hundred-and-Thirtieth Street connects the Drive with 
the Harlem Speedway, a stretch of road especially built 
for speeding fast trotters that half circles the high tree- 
grown promontory north of Grant's tomb and beyond 
the valley mentioned. 

The fourth street I want to speak of is Wall Street, 
the centre of the city's financial district, and famous all 
over the civilized world as a place where more immense 
fortunes have been made and lost, and more gigantic 
financial and business operations started and carried 
through, than anywhere else. Wall Street itself is a 
short and narrow thoroughfare running like a mountain 
gorge through the lofty cliff-like walls of the sky- 
scrapers that front upon it. It got its name from a 
wall that once defended New Amsterdam at this point, 
and which was built by the order of old Governor 
Peter Stuyvesant in 1653. But assuredly that short- 
tempered old gentleman would be put to it to recognize 
the place nowadays. Here tower New York's highest 
buildings, making of the streets narrow gorges, and 
giving odd effects of light and shadow, revealing cliff- 
like profiles, darkening the sun at midday. The Wall 
Street district includes a number of the streets that are 
linked together in this vicinity and that comprise the 
whole of the financial portion. The street itself is less 
than half a mile in length, but an incredible number of 
people manage to jostle and squeeze along its narrow 
extent, surging from one side to the other — a motley 

37 



New York 

throng of eager, intent, hurrying clerks, bankers, 
brokers, messenger boys on the run, express-men, 
newspaper-men, lawyers, kings of finance, millionaires 
whose operations are felt the world over, detectives, 
and sight-seers. 

Fronting the eastern end of the street across Broad- 
way is Trinity Church, and all day long its melodious 
bells chime the hours for ears deaf to anything but the 
sound and fury of trade. Here is the entrance to the 
Stock Exchange, the greatest market for stocks and 
bonds in the world ; here are the United States Sub- 
Treasury, the lofty walls of the twenty-story Broad 
Exchange, and the white marble Drexel Building. 

To walk through Wall Street is to see the American 
spirit at fever-heat : huddled groups talking excitedly ; 
frantic men and boys dashing in all directions, pouring 
out of the mountain-range of buildings and rushing in 
again through the revolving doors ; other men shout- 
ing hoarsely and waving their arms, apparently unheard 
above the roar and rumble of Broadway, that sweeps 
along its endless stream of hurried life ; near by the 
raucous shriek of a construction engine welding huge 
steel beams together hundreds of feet above the pave- 
ment ; a postman hastening along, with his crammed 
bag by his side ; a Jew gesticulating desperately in his 
endeavour to prove a point ; two laughing men turning 
into a restaurant ; small newsboys shrieking extras — 
everywhere an indescribable motion, stir, rush, a beat 
of thousands of feet, the clang of steel on iron, the 
rattle of machinery, a sense of there not being time 
enough for all there is to be done, and, deeper than 

38 



Morning, Afternoon, and Night 

this, the realization of the enormous amount that is 
being done. 

And, facing it all, the quiet gravestones in Trinity's 
yard and the soft chiming of her musical bells. 



CHAPTER VI 

MORNING, AFTERNOON, AND NIGHT 

New York, as I have said, is a city of extremes, and 
this is true of its shape as much as of other things — 
among the rest, the arrangement of its working and 
home quarters. Down at the southern point of 
Manhattan Island, close to the shipping district, are 
collected the great business offices, the ware-rooms, the 
newspaper buildings — with the exception of the Times 
and Herald — the financial houses, the manufactories ; 
while up-town are the hotels and apartment-houses, the 
private dwellings and boarding-places, from out of 
which there pours every morning a horde of men 
and women on their way to their work. In addition, 
Long Island, New Jersey, and the districts north of the 
city send their thousands, and all these people have to 
get to practically the same spot at practically the same 
time. You can easily imagine that it is something of a 
problem to convey so vast a number to and from the 
business section every morning and evening. It is 
done, but the crush is terrible — so terrible that people 
have been killed in it. 

39 



New York 

From six to eight in the morning they begin 
arriving from the suburbs by train, boat, and trolly. 
On reaching Manhattan, they separate into three 
streams, most going on by the subway, others by the 
elevated roads, the remainder by the surface cars. 
The subway catches most, since it is the fastest! 
Here, in the rush hours, you can see a sight not to 
be matched elsewhere — happily ! 

Policemen stand in all the express stations close to 
the doors of the long trains, keeping such order as they 
can between the incoming and outgoing passengers, 
assisted to some extent by iron railings that serve 
to guide the two opposing streams. As each train 
pulls up and the doors are slid back, a frantic rush is 
made by the waiting crowds. " Let 'em off!" yells the 
guard ; " Keep back !" roar the police ; and those who 
must get out push and struggle against the advance 
throng of those who want to get in. The policemen 
pull and shove ; the gongs sound incessantly ; and as the 
last passenger squeezes off a resistless mass of humanity 
is wedged into each car ; the doors are slid shut again, at 
the imminent risk of crushing someone ; the policemen 
haul back those who have not managed to board the 
train, and off she whirls, to be followed the next 
moment by another, where the same scene is repeated. 
So many seconds' stop is allowed each train, and during 
these the crowd must be got off and on. There is no 
question of sitting room; standing room is hard enough 
to get. People inside are packed so close that they are 
unable to change their position between stations. If 
your arm is bent, bent it remains till the next stop 

40 




Pw 



Morning, Afternoon, and Night 

brings a fresh readjustment ; and often clothes are 
torn, hats crushed, and bundles lost. 

On the elevated, or overhead, railroad, popularly 
called the " L," the crowds are not quite so bad, yet the 
trains are packed to the doors, the passengers standing 
out on the platforms even in the bitter winter weather. 
As for the surface cars, though they run so closely 
together on Broadway, Sixth Avenue, and the rest of 
the long streets that they almost touch each other, they 
are also crowded, and strap-hangers — as those who have 
to stand up are called, because straps are provided for 
them to hold on by, and thus avoid being knocked off 
their feet by the violent stopping and starting of the 
cars — are as common here as elsewhere. 

This extreme state of affairs endures for only a brief 
space of time, a couple of hours each in the morning 
and at night, known as the rush hours. But no one 
who has been caught in them is likely to forget the 
experience. Yet thousands of persons suffer them 
every day, and, with that madness for speed so char- 
acteristic of the New Yorker, they will squeeze and 
fight their way into an express train, rather than spend 
an extra fifteen minutes in a local, though these are by 
no means so crowded. 

Everyone uses these three means of transportation in 
New York, very few of even the richest men going to 
their business in cabs or motors. The distances are so 
great and the traffic regulations so severe, that too 
much time would be wasted ; so that the little shop- 
girl and the multi-millionaire often go to their day's 
work side by side, each clinging to a strap. 

ny. 41 6 



New York 

It is an enlivening sight to saunter about one of the 
busy sections of town and see the workers hurrying to 
their jobs — a fine frosty autumn morning in Madison 
Square, for instance, when the grass is still green, and 
the yellow leaves are falling at the least puff of wind. 
Between six and seven come the shop-girls, hastening 
down the streets and avenues in chattering squads, all 
very smart in their feathered hats, on top of huge 
pompadours of generally blonde hair. As they 
disappear into the side-doors of the big shops, and are 
whirled to the different floors, snatching off their gloves 
and unbuttoning their coats in the elevators, they are 
followed by the clerks, stenographers, secretaries, male 
and female, by the telephone girls, coming to relieve 
the night operators, and hundreds more. The street- 
cleaners in white uniforms and helmets are swabbing 
the streets, the delivery waggons are rattling off in all 
directions, and boys are crying the morning papers. 
On the benches in the square the night vagrants are 
thawing out in the sun, and beginning to shuffle off to 
their mysterious haunts. Then the school - children 
come along, racing each other on roller-skates, shouting 
and laughing, or going along primly in little groups. 
There is an energy and merriment to everything and 
everyone. The day is young and shining ; no one is 
tired ; the very buildings glisten in the sunlight. All 
the time, underground, overhead, in all the cars are 
passing the thousands whose work lies farther down- 
town. The morning is the special time of the workers, 
full of energy, strong, cheerful. 

The afternoon belongs to the idlers. Fifth Avenue 

42 



Morning, Afternoon, and Night 

and the shopping streets, Twenty-Third, Thirty-Fourth, 
Forty-Second, and the middle portion of Broadway, are 
filled with pleasure-seekers. Carriages, motors, cabs of 
all kinds, pass up and down in unending streams, while 
on the pavements the crowd idles along, and pours in 
and out of the shops. They all appear to be well 
dressed, often in the extremes of the fashion. If it is a 
matinee day, the theatres, the opera, and many concerts 
attract their thousands, who jostle about the entrances. 
A little later the afternoon-tea shops begin to fill up. 
Some of these are quaint little places with ^ signs 
swinging over their doors, and cosy rooms, lighted 
softly, and arranged like private drawing-rooms. 
Others are special rooms in the big hotels, where tea 
is served between five and six, usually preceded by the 
American cocktail. 

Presently the lights begin to appear. Fifth Avenue 
puts on its* double chain of double pearls, that shimmer 
in the asphalt as in a lake. Broadway sets its glare of 
electricity afire and becomes the Great White Way. 
Far above everything else the immense torch that 
crowns the Metropolitan Tower burns clearly and the 
clock bursts into light, each number and the two arms 
being outlined with incandescent lamps. The day is 

over. 

From the work-rooms and offices stream the 
workers, a little pale and tired now, and add themselves 
to the idling crowds. Far up over the city the last 
pink glow fades from the sky, and over New Jersey a 
frail new moon shows its silver crescent. On the two 
great rivers and the harbour the lights spring out once 

43 



New York 

again, and all the sky-scrapers turn to fairy mountains, 
twinkling with innumerable lamps. The dinner-hour 
arrives, and the crowd thins as the restaurants fill up ; 
and then again the pleasure-seekers crowd the streets, 
going to the manifold amusements of the metropolis. 

Up above the only darkness New York ever knows 
deepens to blackness. Suddenly, with a clangour and 
screech, the three horses at full gallop, a fire-engine 
dashes through a side-street and crosses the Avenue, 
while the police hold up the traffic. The firemen are 
still hauling on their coats, their faces showing pale for 
a moment in the glare of light, and the driver swings 
his heavy team with splendid skill through the crowded 
street and round the corner. People stare after it a 
minute, and then go on about their business. Night 
has fallen on New York. And underground, overhead, 
in all the crowded surface cars, the workers who live 
farther up-town or in the suburbs are rushing home- 
ward. 

New York as a whole never goes to bed, never 
sleeps. It is worse than Paris in this respect, and quite 
different from London. No matter at what hour you 
are abroad, you will find people travelling about on the 
cars, walking hither and thither, apparently with no 
notion that the night was meant to sleep in. At three, 
four, five o'clock they are still there ; and then the 
early-morning traffic begins, with the milk-waggons and 
farmers' carts, and before one knows it the sun is 
slanting through the streets once more, and a new day 
is at hand. 



44 



The Sky-Scrapers 
CHAPTER VII 

THE SKY-SCRAPERS 

I have spoken of the tall buildings picturesquely 
named " sky-scrapers " several times, but they merit 
a chapter to themselves, since they are so peculiarly 
characteristic of New York and so amazing in appear- 
ance and construction. 

New York, so far as its lower section is concerned, 
is almost a city stood on end, so much of its life being 
carried on hundreds of feet above the street level. 
The sky-scraper is a marvellous example of man's 
cleverness in finding ways to meet his requirements. 
Since there was nowhere near enough room on the end 
of Manhattan Island for the merest portion of the 
population that had to be there, and since it was pre- 
vented by the jealous waters from spreading out, there 
was nothing left for it but to climb up into the air. 
Climb, therefore, the New Yorker did, ever higher and 
higher, until he reached such heights as the Singer 
Building, 612 feet above the pavement, and the 
Metropolitan Life Building, with its fifty stories, to 
mention the giants among giants. For there are 
innumerable other buildings whose top floors are more 
than twenty stories high, vast structures occupying 
entire city blocks. Among these are the row of 
financial houses on Nassau Street above Wall, almost 
all having more than twenty stories, the Park Row 
Building, thirty-one stories in height and containing 
1,000 offices, and the Hudson Terminal Building, 

45 



New York 

twenty-two stones high, the largest office building in 
the world, having 4,000 offices and housing a popula- 
tion of over 10,000 souls. 

This immense structure is the terminal for the 
Hudson River tunnels to Jersey City, and all the 
underground systems, the " subways," of Manhattan, 
meet beneath it. It has a glass-enclosed arcade, lineal 
with shops of all sorts, larger than any of the famous 
arcades of Europe, and before long to be, in all 
probability, the greatest covered shopping street in 
existence. Then there is the white marble New York 
Life Building, with its magnificent portico and lofty 
clock-tower. The Fuller Building, at Twenty-Third 
Street, got its popular name of the Flatiron because it 
is built on a piece of ground shaped precisely like a 
flat-iron, with the rounded end pointing toward 
Broadway and Fifth Avenue at Twenty-Fifth Street. 
When you look at it from that point, it produces an 
extraordinary sense of motion. It seems like a huge, 
strange ship moving down upon you under full sail, 
and, especially on misty days when it is partly veiled, 
this effect is startling and impressive ; and again, when 
darkness falls early and all its countless windows are 
lighted, and you stand staring up at it, it seems 
impossible that man should ever have conceived, far 
less that he could actually have built, so amazing a 
structure. It has a strange beauty of its own, a beauty 
you do not see at first very likely, but which, once 
recognized, catches at the heart. 

It is impossible even to mention all New York's 
sky-scrapers, and it would be tiresome to read of them 

46 



The Sky-Scrapers 

all ; but it is worth while trying to give you an idea 
of how complete in itself each of these huge buildings 
is — a veritable little city, holding within its walls almost 
everything a man requires in modern life. 

In the first place, the foundations of these structures 
are wonderful. They go down to bed-rock, and the 
iron pillars and girders are clamped to the living 
rock, sometimes fully ioo feet below, and piers are 
sunk like those used for bridges. Indeed, the building 
itself is more like a bridge set on end than anything 
else, made of steel beams and ceiling arches, welded 
together with red-hot rivets. It is a steel cage, to 
which the walls are attached later, sometimes the 
walling-in of the upper stories being finished first. 
The noise of one of these buildings under construction 
is simply deafening, the reverberations of the iron 
hammer, striking with ever-increasing speed and force, 
making a sound that is like the howl of a demon 
in pain. 

Of course, these buildings have to be strongly braced 
against the wind, and iron cables fastened deep below 
the surface of the ground are employed. Usually the 
vibration can be distinctly felt in the upper stories 
during a storm, and often the pendulums of clocks are 
stopped. There is a wonderful exhilaration in being at 
one of the windows of such a sky-scraper during a 
storm. The top of the Times Tower, on Broadway and 
Forty-Second Street, with its fine view of the entire 
city, of the country north to beyond Yonkers, the 
superb stretch of the Hudson, and New Jersey for 
miles toward the west, while to the east lie the 

47 



New York 

glittering Sound and the low shores of Long Island, is 
a great vantage-point on the approach of a thunder- 
storm. The mighty building appears to shiver under 
you as the wind strikes it and the thunder roars past. 
Far below the tiny horses and people scatter under the 
rain, or go desperately on their way. The waters 
of the river whiten and turn black again ; the trees 
of the country-sides and the parks sway and struggle as 
though in a wild dance ; and you can see the rain falling 
in heavy sheets, blown into curves and waves, like 
a curtain of filmy stuff. 

But to return to the sky-scrapers and their arrange- 
ments. In the first place, down in the great cellars are 
the " plants," or machinery, for the electric lights, the 
hot and cold water, steam-heat, and the machinery 
for running the lifts. It is a bewildering maze of huge 
boilers, furnaces, steam-engines, vast tanks, enormous 
pumps, and queer-looking dynamos. A large force of 
attendants is required to take care of these, and the 
superintendent of each building (many of whom are 
women) has a host of employees to command. There 
are also uniformed police to keep order when necessary, 
the elevator boys, the window and floor cleaners, the 
engineers, and countless more. 

The ground floors often contain arcades leading from 
one street to another, lined with booths and small 
shops, and decorated with beautiful marbles, pillars, and 
arches. Here, too, are the cable and telegraph offices, 
the messenger service, the restaurants. The arcade 
of the Empire Building, for instance, connecting 
Broadway with the Rector Street " L " Station, is a real 

48 



The Sky-Scrapers 

little street, through which pass thousands of people 
every day, and where you can purchase anything. 

From the lowest level start the elevators to the 
dizzy heights above. There are both express and 
local cars, and they are just like trains shooting up 
into the air instead of running along the ground, each 
car holding twenty or twenty-five persons. The 
express lifts usually go to the tenth or fifteenth floor 
before stopping, and have a speed of from 500 to 700 
feet a minute. 

The very large buildings have their own water 
system, the Metropolitan, for instance, drawing its 
supply from a brook that used to run through the 
meadows of what is now Madison Square to the East 
River. It flows still, but far beneath the asphalt. 

Each floor has its fire alarms and extinguishers ; its 
mail-chutes, long tubes that take letters down to 
the post-boxes on the ground floor, where the postman 
collects them ; and its telephone system, with switch- 
boards connecting with the central office. Barbers, boot- 
blacks, dentists, doctors, even Turkish baths, with banks, 
life-insurance offices, safe-deposit vaults, tailors' shops, 
and public stenographers— all are at hand. There is one 
firm in the city that does nothing else but supply the 
offices in the big buildings with clean towels and soap 
every morning, and buffet luncheons are served on 
several floors. It is easy to spend a week in going 
through one of these places ; even then there would be 
much left to see. 

In addition to the electric lights inside the sky- 
scrapers, many of them are beautifully illuminated 

ny. 49 7 



New York 

outside. I have spoken of the tower of the Metro- 
politan, with its clock and torch. The Singer Building 
is exquisitely outlined with incandescent lamps, and by 
a system of shaded lights a glow is thrown on the 
tower that has a magical effect. The gilded dome 
of the World is also lighted up, and there are several 
great search-lights that sweep the air far above the city. 

Naturally the sky-line in New York is .remarkable ; 
for often a tiny three-story house, looking like a child's 
toy, will be sandwiched in between two immense 
modern buildings. Even the church steeples fail to 
attain anywhere near the roof-line of a sky-scraper, 
and altogether there is a great up-and-downness to 
the city. But month by month the little houses 
are coming down and the giants taking their places. 
Already one wonders where it will end. Will all 
the streets come to be like mountain-passes between 
enormous cliffs? Even up-town, where there is still 
plenty of room, the new apartment-houses are growing 
higher and higher, story above story, often covering 
a whole block and soaring up fifteen and twenty floors. 

In the past two or three years Fifth and Fourth 
Avenues have been busily erecting sky-scrapers, clearing 
away scores of the old houses, and Broadway's giants 
are marching steadily northward. The side-streets are 
following suit, and the next ten years promise great 
changes. By the time the flying ships become common 
perhaps most of the traffic will be on the high levels, 
and with the stations for them on top, and the subways 
below, old mother earth will be quite neglected, so far 
as surface travel goes. 

50 



Coney Island 
CHAPTER VIII 

CONEY ISLAND 

New York has a playground all its own, a place as full 
of amusing things as a toy-shop, as astonishing as a 
conjurer's box, and as exciting as a circus. This place 
is Coney Island, and it seems to be known all over the 
world ; for on the incoming ships you will see the 
passengers crowding to the rail to look at its strange 
towers and fantastic scenic railways, its huge bathing- 
houses and board-walk, and, whether they are immi- 
grants in the steerage or travellers in the first cabin, 
they have heard of Coney, and they want to see it. 

Coney Island is reached from New York either 
by land or sea, and during the season hundreds of 
thousands of persons are carried back and forth to 
spend all the day and much of the night on the beaches 
and in the streets of the strange little town, with its 
garish pleasure-palaces, its beer-gardens, theatres, side- 
shows, and restaurants, amusing themselves with all the 
jolly and foolish devices for having what the crowds 
call " a dandy time." 

Coney is a fine place for fun even in the daytime, 
when the beaches are crowded with men, women, and 
children, playing tag, throwing balls, racing in and out 
of the blue and white water, or diving into the waves 
from the floats anchored at varying distances from 
shore to suit swimmers of different strength. So cool 
and fresh it is here, only a half-hour from the baking 

5 1 



New York 

city, where summer, as one of New York's poets has 

phrased it, 

" Brings her furious fires, 
And lights them on the City's iron hearth." 

But here at Coney the wind is always blowing ; and 
here come the pale children of the slums with their 
weary mothers to find a day's health and happiness in 
the clear sun and by the sparkling sea ; here, too, the 
tired business man, unable to leave his work for a 
vacation in the real country, comes to enjoy his dip, 
and a cigar on the board-walk in the evening, when the 
gaieties of the Coney Bowery have drawn the throngs 
from the water-side. 

Coney is like a constant country fair on a huge scale, 
and with features of its own beside. There isn't any- 
thing to eat that you may not have for the price, from 
the "hot dog," which is the popular name for a hot 
Frankfurter sausage, that you may watch cooking in a 
hundred booths, and which is handed out to you 
slapped between a split roll, or that favourite American 
edible, the peanut, hot likewise, and fresh from the 
little charcoal-burning roasters on wheels, whose shrill 
piping is one of the island's familiar sounds, to elaborate 
French and Italian table d'hote dinners, or the steamed 
clams and broiled chicken dear to every New Yorker. 
Sweets, or, as the Americans say, candy, of all kinds is 
also on sale, especially the popular molasses candy, 
looking very pretty as it revolves on the arms of the 
pulling machines, that throw the shining yellow strands 
from hook to hook, and draw them ever smoother and 
whiter. And that delightful summer drink, ice-cream 

5 2 



Coney Island 

soda, is dispensed from scores of glittering fountains, a 
first rival to beer in the favour of the crowds. 

There are German, Persian, Japanese eating-places, 
and Chinese " chop-suey " houses, where, besides the dish 
that gives its name to the establishments — a sort of 
stew — you get tea in handleless cups, rice wine, bamboo 
shoots, and all manner of queer but good things to eat 
or drink. 

There is, however, much beside swimming and eating 
to occupy you in Coney. Both the board-walk, that 
overhangs the sea, and the Bowery, which is the main 
street, are lined with booths and show-places of every 
description, where all sorts of tricks are played, and 
where you may see anything from performing fleas or 
elephants to fairy palaces or moving pictures of a 
voyage to the moon. Outside the rival shows stand 
the "barkers," as they are called, and yell aloud the 
attractions of their particular place, or call to you 
through megaphones, or point alluringly within, while 
a couple of performers go through a short act on 
a little platform, as who should say : " This is all very 
well, but only go inside and you will see something." 

Luna Park and Dreamland are large sections of 
Coney containing several acres of ground, within 
whose gates are real fairylands of plaster palaces, little 
lakes and waterfalls, Venetian canals on which float 
gondolas, and lurid caves where lurk creatures like 
hobgoblins. There are the water-chutes, too, and 
perhaps these are the best of all the Coney " stunts/' 
combining so much excitement in such a brief space 
of time that you are likely to find all your pennies 

S3 



New York 

being spent on repeating the wild ride down the 
shining slope of water and the frantic splash into the 
pond, where you escape being soaked to the skin by 
what seems nothing less than a miracle. 

At Coney Island something is happening every 
minute. Now it is a horde of cowboys or Indians 
rushing down the street on horseback with a blood- 
curdling yell ; now a couple of elephants with coolie 
drivers sitting on their heads move gravely past. 
Donkeys and ponies scurry along, a group of Javanese 
in native costume cross the street, looking curiously 
about them, or a couple of trapeze-performers suddenly 
appear on an elevated platform and begin to do wonder- 
ful tricks. 

Then, the crowd itself is alone worth seeing. Automo- 
biles jam along slowly, honking steadily, and small open 
carriages fly about in all directions. The pavements 
are packed with people of every nationality, speaking 
varied samples of what they believe to be English, and 
hauling along children of assorted sizes. Here a couple 
of lovers go by arm in arm, quite oblivious of the rest 
of the world. There a fat German woman with ten 
children screams instructions to which no attention is 
paid, and farther along, pushing good-naturedly 
through the press, two typical, smart business men 
out for a lark make their way to a waiting motor. 

It is all a jumble of noise, colour, humanity, of every 
shape, size, and tint. Shop-girls, in white blouses cut 
low in the neck, and clinging together in groups of 
three and four, pass along chattering with each other. 
Country people, in to see the sights, lounge along, 

54 



Coney Island 

jostled this way and that, with sandwiches or oranges 
in their hands. Clumps of boys rush in and out, 
following some thrilling sight or making for the 
bathing beaches. An Oriental fortune-teller comes 
out of his booth, in flowing robes and a huge turban, 
and regards the passers-by calmly. Music from half 
a dozen bands mingles in an extraordinary medley, and 
over all sound the feet and the voices of the hundreds 
and hundreds of visitors passing and re-passing hour 
after hour. 

But night is the real time for seeing Coney. Then 
all its tawdriness and vulgarity disappear in the trans- 
forming wonder of the lights. Then its make-believe 
palaces seem real, its towers and airy bridges are out- 
lined with myriads of tiny lamps, its waters reflect the 
tangled glory, and far away the black sea murmurs and 
rolls its foam upon the sands, lending to the glitter and 
the racket the accompaniment of eternity. 

Marvellous fireworks are set off as it grows later, 
tracing fiery patterns on the sky and sending showers 
of coloured lights to earth. The Ferris Wheel, rimmed 
with light, revolves slowly, its cars filled with people. 
The mothers begin to lead their youngsters home, 
tired out with the day's fun, and the workers begin to 
appear — men and girls who have been all day in the 
hot city in offices and shops, and who come to Coney 
for a breath of salt air and a few hours of fun before 
getting back to bed. 

Coney is an absurd place, of course. But what 
New York would do without its silly, merry relaxation 
I'm sure I don't know. It is the only summer vaca- 

55 



New York 

tion most of the city's population ever gets ; and it 
saves more children than all the chemists' shops or 
hospitals. 

At Seagate, adjoining Coney, there is a kind of 
hospital, called Seabreeze, maintained by charity, where 
tired mothers and their little ones are sent for two 
weeks at a time, and given a complete rest and good 
food. It is a beautiful, commodious house right on 
the sea, and it is good to see how the visitors gain 
health and strength during their stay. So that Coney 
and its neighbour are not only places for amusing 
oneself, but spots where the poor can discover what 
blue skies and green grass and flowing water are, 
where they can have their snatch at a summer in the 
country. 



CHAPTER IX 

SCHOOLS AND SUCH 

A city is no place for a child, though none the less 
every city is full of them, and certainly New York is 
no exception to this rule. There are children of 
every nationality scattered through it — solemn-looking 
Chinese babies in green and purple coats, and with 
queer round caps on their heads and queerer shoes 
on their feet ; black-haired, black-eyed Italian and 
Spanish children ; and equally dark Polish, Yiddish, 
and Russian youngsters. Then there are Swedes 
and Germans, fair and ruddy. There are children 
whose parents came over before they were born, and 

56 




^^ 



WASHINGTON ARCH ON A WET DAY PAGE 30 



Schools and Such 

who consider themselves thorough Americans, and can 
hardly speak their mother - tongue ; and there are 
children just off the immigrant ships who cannot speak 
a word of English, but of whom American citizens 
must be made — children of every grade in life, from 
the pampered sons and daughters of the old families 
and the richest of America's population down to the 
penniless street waifs living Heaven only knows how. 
And all of these children must be brought up and 
schooled and started in life in some way or other. 

So you can fancy that the school problem in New 
York is a serious one. Such a mixed mass of human 
beginnings from all over the world to be fashioned into 
American citizens — a task that falls largely on the 
public schools and their women teachers, who form by 
far the greater part of the teaching corps in New York's 
system of education. 

The public schools are free, and attendance at 
them is compulsory, unless it can be proved that the 
child is receiving proper education privately. Most of 
the schools are fine new buildings, erected according to 
modern ideas, built of stone and concrete, with wide 
halls and playgrounds and well-lighted study and 
recitation rooms. They are steam-heated and carefully 
ventilated, and desks and chairs are convenient and 
roomy, while every care is given to bringing teacher 
and child into as close touch as possible. But un- 
fortunately the population is increasing faster than the 
schools, and many of the buildings are badly over- 
crowded, while many children have to be satisfied with 
half-time — a condition probably more agreeable to 

ny. 57 8 



New York 

them than to their parents. All possible speed in 
erecting new schools is being made, however, and 
before long every child will be properly accommodated. 

Besides the regular school courses there are industrial 
classes for both boys and girls, and other classes for 
such children as are not quite up to the mark either 
mentally or physically, and must be treated with more 
consideration and patience than those who are normal. 
The work done with these poor little ones is wonderful 
and most encouraging. There are even classes held 
on the roofs in the open air all through the coldest 
weather, for children who have a tendency to consump- 
tion, and it is both pathetic and funny to see the little 
boys and girls and the teacher sitting all wrapped up in 
coats and blankets, with thick gloves and foot-muffs. 

During the summer holidays the playgrounds are 
kept open in the poorer sections of the city, so that 
the youngsters, who would otherwise have no place but 
the street to play in, may be safe, and have the 
advantage of the basket-ball and other amusements 
provided in the school-yards. 

Many of the schools have fine gymnasiums and 
swimming-baths, with teachers. And there are regular 
physical examinations of the children, with free treat- 
ment when necessary. In some of the schools free 
breakfasts are served for the children of the very 
poor. 

Besides these free public schools and the free high 
schools, from the latter of which scholars can graduate 
with a teacher's diploma, there are, of course, numerous 
private schools and kindergartens which may be 

58 



Schools and Such 

attended at pleasure. And there is the College of the 
City of New York and Columbia University, with 
many graduate schools. 

Columbia is situated on Morningside Heights, with 
a superb view of the Hudson. The spot is an historic 
one, for here Washington, on September 16, in the 
year 1776, fought and won the battle of Harlem 
Heights. The University has commemorated this fact 
by setting a bronze tablet' in the Engineering Building. 
The college campus is a beautiful lawn graced with 
giant chestnut and oak trees, and enclosed by a high 
and massive iron fence. At present only six of the 
fifteen buildings are completed ; they are handsome, 
built of brick and stone in the Georgian style. In 
addition, there is the Seth Low Memorial Library, one 
of the city's most beautiful buildings. This library is 
built in the pure Greek style, with lofty dome and 
splendid pillars, and stands nobly, surmounting a rise, 
backed by trees and approached by broad flights of 
steps flanked by fountains. Midway is set the statue 
of Alma Mater, a bronze, gilded figure of a seated 
woman with arms outspread in welcome. 

Morningside Heights is notable for its monumental 
buildings. Besides the University and its allied 
colleges, and the fine dormitory buildings, the 
Cathedral of St. John the Divine is slowly building, 
and though forty or fifty years will probably have 
elapsed before its completion, its dignified beauty is 
already a thing of joy. In its partially built state it 
resembles some superb ruin, whose mighty dome and 
giant columns Time has been unable to subdue. 

59 



New York 

Not far from the cathedral is the immense St. Luke's 
Hospital, one of New York's most important hospitals, 
and which, though by no means as fine as the other 
structures on the Heights, yet presents a pleasing 
effect across the green reaches of Morningside Park. 
In the days to come, when the many projected build- 
ings have been completed, this part of the city will be 
crowned with stately houses, set among fine trees and 
approached by broad avenues. This will not be for 
some years ; for though New York is a place of haste, 
she is as yet too commercial to give the millions 
necessary for the contemplated work as eagerly as she 
pours them into office buildings or subways. 

But enough of schools, which are a dry subject at the 
best ; though I should like to say a word or two of 
the public recreation piers and playgrounds, run by the 
municipality for the benefit of the city's children, while 
I am on the subject. 

These playing places are built on piers running out 
into the East River, or situated in vacant lots. They 
are entirely for the use of children, although there is 
generally a pavilion with seats for the mothers of 
babies. A policeman or two keep an eye on the boys 
and girls, to see that there is no rowdyism — big good- 
natured fellows who are usually the best of chums 
with all the youngsters. These playgrounds have 
huge piles of clean sand to dig in, and all sorts of 
trapezes, seesaws, swings, parallel bars, and what not, for 
the amusement of children of all ages. They are 
almost always crowded, and are not only excellent in 
themselves, but they serve to keep the little folk off 

60 



Schools and Such 

the streets. Unfortunately, there are not nearly enough 
of them, and when you walk through the tenement 
districts of the city and see the swarming " kids," as 
they call themselves, it seems as if all the children in 
the world must live right there, fighting and playing 
under the wheels of carts and trucks, in the midst of 
the dirt and confusion of the city's meanest streets. 

But New York is trying hard to look after her 
young fry, and to give them some sort of chance for 
getting an education and achieving a fair degree of 
health ; she has much to do, and the S.P.C.C., the 
Children's Courts, the various benevolent societies, as 
well as the Municipality itself, are really only at the 
beginning of their usefulness. They are on the right 
path, however, and New York, considering that her 
family is such a mixed one and her problem so difficult, 
has no reason to be ashamed of what has already been 
done in her nursery. 



CHAPTER X 

SHOPS, THEATRES, HOTELS 

New York takes its amusements outside its homes. It 
is a city of restaurants, cafes, theatres, vaudeville-shows. 
Even its big shops offer attractions in the form of 
concerts, lectures, picture-exhibitions, and model 
apartments, hoping thereby to lure people within 
their doors by some surer appeal than the simple 
one of selling goods. 

61 



New York 

There are more than eighty first-class theatres and 
amusement-places in the city, ranging in size from 
the Madison Square Gardens and the Hippodrome, 
with their immense auditoriums capable of holding 
thousands of persons, to the tiny but exquisite 
little places, like the Nazimova or Belasco Theatres, 
more like drawing-rooms than play-houses, where 
500 or 600 people will fill the auditorium, and 
where the stage appears to be in close touch with 
every spectator. 

The Hippodrome is devoted to huge spectacular 
affairs : ballets that employ hundreds of dancers, 
water-acts where a large lake is part of the scenery — a 
lake big enough for a herd of elephants to plunge 
into, and swim in ; as occurred in a scene representing 
an East Indian hunt. Sometimes battle scenes are 
presented that really give a sensation of the thing 
itself, so tremendous is the illusion created by the 
great stage and its remarkable scenery. This place 
gives two performances daily, and is almost always 
crowded, which, when you remember that it takes the 
population of a little town to fill the house, gives some 
idea of New York's floating population ; for the New 
Yorker himself rarely goes to the Hippodrome, unless 
as a guide to his country cousins. This audience is 
itself a sight worth seeing, tier on tier, spreading out 
fan-like, and the roar of its applause resembles the roar 
of a cataract when some special act takes its fancy. 

The Madison Square Gardens faces upon the north- 
east corner of Madison Square, taking up an entire 
block, and is one of the city's beautiful buildings. 

62 



Shops, Theatres, Hotels 

Built of tawny brick, with arched arcades supported 
on pillars of polished marble, and surmounted by domes 
and minarets in the Spanish style, it would be a lovely 
sight, even without the exquisite tower adapted from 
the famous Giralda of Seville, crowned by the golden 
Diana made by Saint-Gaudens, who turns to the wind 
and seems forever about to loose her shining arrow 
straight at old Boreas. At night this tower is often 
outlined with electric lights, and seen across the tree- 
grown square it is always a delight to the eye, though 
its height has been dwarfed by the Metropolitan s sky- 
climbing shaft, at the south-east corner of the same 

square. 

The Gardens contains the largest amusement-hall in 
America, and here are held the horse shows, the 
bicycle races, the Wild West, and the circus, as well as 
the big political caucuses. The place is somewhat in 
the form of a Roman amphitheatre with a huge central 
space surrounded by tiers of seats. Some of the shows 
are a lot of fun, and entirely transform the appearance 
of the hall During the Sportsman's Show, for instance, 
the place looks like a wilderness, with Indian tepees in 
one spot, a pond where swimming and canoe races are 
held, or where expert fly-fishers cast for prizes in the 
centre, and camps scattered here and there, with guides, 
deer, foxes, even a bear or two, not to mention count- 
less heads and skins, filling up the prospect. 

Opera in New York is carried on for a long 
season every year with great magnificence. At the 
Metropolitan Opera House on Broadway, at Fortieth 
Street, more great stars have sung in one performance 

63 



New York 

than anywhere else. The house itself has nowhere 
near the beauty of the Paris Opera, but the auditorium 
and stage are particularly spacious and fine, and the 
decorations dignified and harmonious. It will not be 
long, however, before a new opera house is built, whose 
architectural beauty will be as great as that of the 
opera buildings in other world-cities. In the mean- 
while the music and the singers are the best there are ; 
and the operas are given with the utmost artistic 
perfection. 

The New Theatre, now in its second year, is the 
only endowed play-house in New York. A fine stock 
company produces plays that are thought to be worth 
while, without special regard to their being money- 
makers, and every modern device in stage equipment 
and stage management makes it possible to get effects 
beyond the reach of other theatres. 

In the other play-houses the rule is long runs and 
the star system, and a bad play that attracts the crowd 
will be held on the boards, while good one shave to 
wait or often get no chance at all. But at the New 
Theatre there is constant change of bill, and its 
company is trained with a regard for general excellence 
and perfection of detail. The New Theatre is a hand- 
some structure of stone, with a columned facade 
facing Central Park on the west side, and within, the 
foyer, the tea and lounging rooms, and promenades and 
stairways, are beautiful and convenient. Unluckily, the 
auditorium has not been an unqualified success, and 
various changes have been or are to be made in it. 
Besides these special places, and many others for 






Si 



. 



I 




Shops, Theatres, Hotels 

New York to amuse itself in, according to American 
ways and speech, there are a number of theatres where 
the city's foreign population goes to see and hear plays in 
any of half a dozen different languages, or to enjoy melo- 
dramas of what are called the " ten, twenty, thirty " 
variety, since not more than thirty cents is charged for 
any seat. At the Yiddish theatre, on the lower east 
side, one may see really fine acting, and several players 
who have since made worldwide reputations began 
their careers in that unpretentious place. There was a 
Chinese theatre, but it has been closed. One of the 
sights of the town was to go to one of its extraordinary 
representations, where the pigtailed audience invariably 
sat on the backs of the chairs, with their feet on the 
seats, and where the plays were so long that they were 
continued from night to night for weeks. 

The Italians have their marionette shows, that are 
worth the trouble of being thoroughly uncomfort- 
able in order to see, since they are acted with great 
cleverness. But the room is insufferably hot and 
ill-ventilated, while the prevailing odour of garlic 
cannot be beaten in Naples itself. The Italian 
population in New York is as large as or larger than 
that of Rome, and the local colour is quite perfect. 

New York is the home of the big department store, 
where you can buy anything you need from the cradle 
to the grave, and a vast deal no one ever needs, but 
which everyone keeps on buying. These stores are 
often splendid buildings, occupying entire blocks and 
running many stories into the air. They have whole 

nv. 65 9 



New York 

floors devoted to furniture, to ready-made clothing, to 
crockery and tinware, to flowers and plants, toys, pet 
animals, groceries and meats, and fruit. You can 
furnish your house and dress yourself, get your house- 
hold supplies, have a shampoo, a manicure, write your 
letters, hear a concert, do your banking, and eat your 
dinner, without leaving one of these shops. There are 
even dentists and oculists ready to serve you. Of 
course, there are lifts to the various floors, and besides 
that, there are usually escalators, or moving stairways, 
to aid in getting the crowds about. 

At the other extreme from these enormous places are 
the small shops along Fifth Avenue where special and 
high-priced articles are kept, and also the hosts of little 
dealers along the poorer avenues and streets. And 
between these two are the finer dry-goods shops, such 
as Altman's, Best's, and McCreery's, on or near the 
Avenue, buildings of marble and white stone, beautiful 
architecturally and with the most careful appointments 
inside to make them agreeable and convenient to their 
customers. Tiffany, the famous jeweller, also has his 
marble building here, as much of a decoration to Fifth 
Avenue as is one of his brooches to the costume of a 
woman. 

More than one of New York's hotels are world-famous 
First among these is probably the Waldorf-Astoria, 
standing on Fifth Avenue on the whole block between 
Thirty-Third and Thirty-Fourth Streets. It was built 
before the present fashion of using light-coloured stone 
and simple lines came to town, and is rather fussy, in 
the German Renaissance style, although the warm 

66 



Shops, Theatres, Hotels 

terra-cotta tones of the red sandstone of which it is 
constructed make an agreeable effect in contrast to the 
cool greys and creams of the buildings near it. The 
Waldorf is said to be the largest hotel in the world, and 
has accommodation for 14,000 or 15,000 persons, with 
forty public rooms. It is always full. Moreover, its 
foyer has become noted for its gay crowd, and has 
been nicknamed Peacock Alley. It is very amusing to 
sit in one of the capacious chairs in this alley and watch 
the fashionably-clothed men and women loitering up 
and down, chatting in groups, spreading their fine 
plumage under its sparkling lights. Few New Yorkers 
are among them, but the West and South, and travellers 
from oversea with money to spend, are here in their 
hundreds. French and Italian attaches on their way to 
or from Washington, famous singers and actresses, 
Senators, English tourists, business men, smart club- 
women — all meet and mingle here in Peacock Alley, 
or in the smoking and lounging rooms or restaurants 
adjoining it. 

One of the city's most beautiful buildings is the 
Plaza Hotel, on Fifty-Ninth Street. It stands practically 
alone in the large space lent by the Plaza in front of it 
and Central Park at the side, so that its superb propor- 
tions can be adequately appreciated. Twenty stories 
high, a pale cream in tint, with its pinnacled and 
turreted roof of a soft and mossy green, occupying the 
entire block from Fifty-Eighth to Fifty-Ninth Streets, 
it strikes the beholder with a strong sense of serenity, 
of lofty completeness, and awakens a new idea of 
architectural harmony. At night, with its myriad 

67 



New York 

windows lighted to all its great height and mingling 
with the sky, it is an unforgettable sight, seeming 
almost a miracle. 

Some of New York's old hostelries still survive, 
notably the Brevoort on lower Fifth Avenue, more like 
a London hotel in its comfortable, composed way than 
an American place, and the Astor House on lower 
Broadway, identified with a past day, but still popular 
with old New Yorkers, and famous for its lobsters. 
The dignified Holland House remains one of the city's 
most select and quiet hotels, and there are many 
more. 

But the up-town march of business has swept most 
of the old buildings away, and the new ones tend to the 
sky-scraper habit, lifting their walls higher and higher 
as the space they stand upon becomes more valuable. 
One of the very newest is the Ritz Carlton, under 
English management, only just thrown open to the 
public. Here there is a mingling of the characteristics 
of both the English and American ideas in hotels, and 
the building is a particularly handsome one. 

A special sort of amusement-place in New York has 
developed from the heat of the summer climate and 
from the large roof-space belonging to many of the 
hotels and theatres. As soon as June comes in 
gardens are opened on these roofs, bowers of palms and 
plants, with tables and chairs set among them, and 
usually a stage at one end for vaudeville acts, besides 
the inevitable orchestra. In the hot nights New York 
comes to these high and cool places to eat and drink, 
and to gaze upon the latest dancer from Paris or 

68 



Other Buildings, Churches, and Statues 

something else equally entertaining. The lights in 
these roof-gardens are softly shaded, a breeze is always 
to be found there, and there is no more attractive spot 
in town than one of these fragrant places, far removed 
from the dust and tumult of the street. 



CHAPTER XI 

OTHER BUILDINGS, CHURCHES, AND STATUES 

In addition to the various places I have described in 
the course of this story of a city, there are a few more 
you should know about, and which would certainly be 
pointed out to you if you went sight-seeing on top of 
one of the big " Seeing New York " automobiles, that 
travel all over the town, accompanied by a guide with 
a megaphone, who indicates everything worth indicating 
and keeps up a running fire of remarks on each point 
of interest he passes. 

Beginning way down at the Battery, on the edge of 
the sea-wall, is the Aquarium, an odd little circular 
building that, in the war of 1812, between England 
and the United States, was called Fort Clinton, and 
was one of the defences of the harbour. It stood on 
an island then, but the space between it and the main- 
land has long been filled in. 

When it was no longer required for a fort, it was 
turned into an amusement -place and renamed Castle 
Garden. Opera was given there, and Jenny Lind made 

69 



New York 

her American debut there in 1850, under the manage- 
ment of P. T. Barnum. Large municipal receptions 
were also held at Castle Garden, and among others 
Lafayette and Kossuth, as well as the Prince of Wales, 
later Edward VII., had balls given here in their honour. 
Later on, it was in this building that Morse proved the 
practicability of his invention of the telegraph. 

Later still, between 1855 an< ^ l %7°> Castle Garden 
was the immigrant bureau, and handled the inflowing 
stream of new-comers, as Ellis Island does now. So 
you see the sturdy stone building has known a lot of 
changes. Now it is the public aquarium, full of tanks 
and glass boxes, large and small, in which dwell the 
strange creatures of the sea, from sharks down to the 
little rainbow-hued paradise fish from Bermuda. 

Another historical building is Fraunces' Tavern, some 
distance north, on Pearl and Broad Streets, in the old 
part of the town. It was built in 1700, and has been 
used as a tavern ever since. It is a quaint little house 
of wood, and has been restored by a patriotic society 
for the sake of the Long Room upstairs, where, after 
the Revolution was over, in 1783, Washington took 
leave of his aides and officers and returned to private 
life. This room is now filled with historic relics and 
revolutionary letters and manuscripts, arranged in a 
permanent exhibition ; but downstairs the tavern con- 
tinues as a place of refreshment for the business man 
of to-day, as it was for his predecessor these many years 
gone. 

Another old-timer is the City Hall, in City Hall 
Park, near the entran ce to Brooklyn Bridge and opposite 

70 



Other Buildings, Churches, and Statues 

the Post Office. This little park is the one green spot 
in that busy section of town, and is as pretty as a 
bouquet of flowers in an office. To the east is News- 
paper Row, so called because the offices of all the great 
dailies were once situated there, and because the news- 
paper life of the city centres there. Here is the big 
World Building, with its golden dome, illuminated at 
night, and the Tribune Building, with a statue of 
Horace Greeley, who founded the paper, in front of it. 
Here is the Sun, in what was once the Tammany Hall 
Building, and the American. Tammany Hall is a 
political society in the city, very powerful, and having 
its headquarters nowadays in Fourteenth Street. The 
Herald and the Times have moved up-town into new 
buildings, the Herald in a long two-story structure 
in the style of the early Italian Renaissance, with 
colonnades that allow the public a full view of the 
paper in process of printing. You can stand there and 
watch the mighty presses at work, the largest turning 
out 5,000 four-page papers a minute — printed, pasted, 
cut, folded, and numbered. The Times is a twenty- 
five- story building, connecting below with the subway, 
the paper occupying the top floors and renting those 
beneath. 

But to come back to the City Hall. It looks very 
small nowadays beside its gigantic neighbours, but it is 
an exquisite little building in the classic style, with 
pillars and a central tower, built in 18 12. The city's 
business has long outgrown it, however, and before 
long it will have to give up its function to a sky-scraper 
that is to be erected close at hand. The old building 

7* 



New York 

is to remain in the centre of its little park, an historic 
landmark and museum for city records and old prints, 
a white and dainty reminder of the old days. 

You may wander about this part of the city a long 
while, seeing new and interesting things. Here is the 
Produce Exchange, a noble structure in brick and terra- 
cotta, on whose long tables are displayed samples of the 
produce from the entire country — all the grains in 
shining heaps, flour, oil, provisions of all kinds. At 
one end of the building is what is called the wheat pit, 
where the great transactions in grain are carried on. 
Not far away is the Stock Exchange, the greatest 
market on earth for stocks, bonds, and securities. It 
is a really thrilling sight to see the opening at ten 
o'clock every working day. As the clang of the bell 
announces that the trading-hour has struck, perfect 
pandemonium breaks out on the floor : men shout and 
gesticulate and rush hither and thither, grabbing each 
other with what looks like real ferocity ; messenger- 
boys dart in and out ; the automatic numbers on the 
wall change constantly ; and in the apparently reasonless 
racket and flurry that go on ceaselessly you could more 
easily fancy yourself in a madhouse than among men 
transacting business. 

A building that takes the eye in this part of the 
town is the temple-like Clearing House, with its dome 
and lofty arches. Also the Treasury, second only to 
the one at Washington, the Capital of the Nation, solid 
and enduring as the living rock upon which it is built. 
Before it stands a fine statue of Washington, in the 
precise spot where stood the living Washington on 

72 




A BLIZZARD, 23RD STREET ANO BROADWAY PAGE 76 



Other Buildings, Churches, and Statues 

April 30, 1789, and took the oath as first President of 
the United States. And the new Customs House is 
worth a long look, a stately building but lately finished, 
and decorated with symbolic groups in marble by 
America's foremost sculptors. 

New York has two great museums, the Metropolitan 
Museum of Art and the Museum of Natural History. 
Neither of these is completely finished, as wings are 
still building. One of them is on the west, the other 
on the east, side of Central Park, and between the two 
you can see a fine collection of pictures, statues, arts 
and crafts specimens of every kind, and of anthropology 
in all its branches, geological specimens, stuffed animals 
and birds (beautifully mounted and grouped to represent 
life), insects, skeletons, and everything relating to art or 
to natural history. 

New York has a fine public library system, with 
branches all over the city, where there are good reading- 
rooms, and whence books may be taken home after 
proper references have been given. The new Public 
Library on Fifth Avenue is not yet completed, and 
will probably not be open to the public before May, 
1 9 1 1 . It is one of the most beautiful buildings in 
America, in the Greek style, of marble, and, so far as 
the arrangements inside go, it will be the most complete 
library in the world, every modern invention for the 
storing and the quick delivery of books being employed, 
the convenience and comfort of the readers having 
been sought in all particulars. 

Cooper Union is another of the city's interesting 
institutions. It was given by Peter Cooper in 1859 as 

ny. 73 10 



New York 

a night-school for young people who had to work by 
day, but gifts from other philanthropists have made it 
possible to hold day-classes also. The sciences and 
arts are taught free, and there is a free library ; there 
are classes in stenography and typewriting and business, 
with free lectures on countless subjects every Wednes- 
day and Saturday evening. Lincoln has spoken in the 
great general hall, as well as many other of America's 
famous orators. 

Among New York's interesting churches are Trinity 
and St. Paul's, both dating from colonial days, and 
situated in the business part of the city. When they 
were built, their slender spires rose high above the 
surrounding houses, and green fields and trees encircled 
them. Now the roaring office buildings tower far 
above the crosses that surmount them, and the city's 
mighty traffic rolls close to their walls. Clustered 
about both these old churches are the graves of the 
earliest citizens, with quaint inscriptions on the worn 
stones. Washington worshipped in St. Paul's, and his 
pew is still shown to visitors. Trinity has a fine chime, 
and it is a regular custom on New Year's Eve to hear 
these rung on the stroke of midnight, the crowds 
jamming lower Broadway at that time being truly 
fearful. 

Farther up is Grace Church, a lovely Gothic building, 
with its rectory and garden, in which stands a large 
terra-cotta vase, dug up in Rome. The Church of the 
Transfiguration, on Twenty-Ninth Street, also gains 
much in beauty from having a garden. This place is 
popularly known as the Little Church Round the 

74 



Other Buildings, Churches, and Statues 

Corner, and it got its name rather oddly. It seems that 
Joseph Jefferson, the well-known actor, went to a big 
church on Madison Avenue to see about the funeral of 
Holland, a brother-actor. The pastor told him he 
could not hold services over the body of a player. 
" But there is a little church round the corner you 
might go to," he added. Jefferson went, and since 
then the Transfiguration has been the favourite church 
for actors in the city, while its nickname has entirely 
taken the place of its name in popular use. 

St. Patrick's Cathedral is the largest and most 
beautiful church in America. It is Roman Catholic, 
and stands on Fifth Avenue, on the block between 
Fiftieth and Fifty-First Streets. It is built in the 
Decorated Gothic style, with twin steeples, of white 
marble, and is approached by broad flights of steps and 
terraces of grass. 

These, then, are glimpses of some of New York's 
various buildings. Her statues are, with few excep- 
tions, poor specimens of art, although she has some 
very fine ones. Notable among these are the Admiral 
Farragut, on Madison Square ; the gilded General 
Sherman on horseback, preceded by a figure of Victory, 
at the Plaza ; and the Diana of the Madison Square 
Tower — all by Saint-Gaudens. Bartholdi's General 
Lafayette ; MacMonnies' Nathan Hale, in City Hall 
Park ; the Crouching Panther, by Edward Kemeys, in 
Central Park ; and several groups and figures on the 
new buildings, are also fine works of art. It is only 
lately that New York has begun to realize the import- 
ance of art, and the care required to secure the best. 

75 



New York 

It is to be hoped that she will gradually remove what 
is bad, and take at least as much pains with her orna- 
ments as she does with her buildings. 



CHAPTER XII 

IMPRESSIONS 

Any account of a great city that is not a mere mass ot 
statistics must be more or less just a series of impres- 
sions, an endeavour to make the reader feel the place, 
to let him see what the citizen sees as he goes his 
usual way. 

Here, then, are a few pictures of the city day by day. 

Madison Square on a snowy December evening: 
Everything is white ; the snow clings to the trees and 
lies in broad sheets on the lawns, and the air is fluffy 
with the falling flakes. Fifth Avenue looks like a 
wide ribbon of silver and pearl, fading into mist at 
either end. South, the Flatiron Building, with all 
its hundreds of windows alight, appears to advance 
upon you through the storm ; at its foot a dazzle 
of electric lamps, where the Avenue and Broadway 
are crossed by Twenty-Third Street. The air is 
bracing, brisk with the ozone of the snow. Across the 
white trees the white Metropolitan tower lifts its 
illuminated shaft, the torch that crowns it looking 
impossibly high. Even as you gaze at it, it is 
suddenly extinguished. There is a pause, then it 
shows four red flashes ; another interval, and the white 
light appears again — disappears — six times. Then a 

7 6 



Imp 



ressions 



moment's darkness and the light resumes its steadfast 
shining. It is six o'clock, and the great bells that 
chime the hours and quarters all day have yielded to 
the electric beacon that takes their place at night, to 
be seen but not heard, so that no sleepers will be 
disturbed. 

Everywhere people — laughing, chatting, carrying 
bundles, powdered with snow, struggling with umbrellas, 
as they catch the gale that sweeps down from the cliff- 
like walls of the Flatiron. Cabs, sleighs, motors, and 
the huge green buses crowd the roadway. Near at 
hand half a dozen boys are tumbling and playing in 
the soft snow, with shrieks and cat-calls. A Salvation 
Army lassie stands at a corner by an iron pot sus- 
pended from a tripod, with a sign over it " Keep 
the Pot Boiling." A pretty girl in rich furs, leading a 
little dog, who is shivering under his blanket, drops 
a silver piece into the pot and nods, smiling, to the 
lassie's " God bless you !" Men free of the day's 
business are tramping up the Avenue by twos and 
threes, still talking over the affairs of the past hours. 
The noise of the streets is hushed by the muffling 
blanket that has fallen, and street-cleaners in their 
yellowish - white uniforms are already engaged in 
removing it. The lights everywhere are reflected 
by the snow-flakes, and the whole city gleams and 
glistens softly. An Italian, selling holly from a little 
hand-cart, shouts cheerily, and a group of working-men, 
repairing a part of the street, hang out red lamps 
that cast a ruddy glare on the snow and up into 
their faces. There is a sparkle and a dash to it all ; 

77 



New York 

everybody seems in a good humour and in a hurry at 
the same time. A horse slips and falls, and im- 
mediately a crowd collects, and a mounted policeman 
appears. The huge helpless creature struggles franti- 
cally till someone sits on its head. Ashes are brought 
and sprinkled on the pavement, and presently it 
is up again, and the crowd melts away while it is 
being reharnessed and the driver is talking it over 
with the policeman. And all the while the thick white 
flakes are falling steadily. 

Or it is May Day in Central Park. All over the 
wide stretches of grass are May parties, with their 
flower- and ribbon-decorated poles, the little boys 
in their best suits, the girls in white, with sashes 
and hair-bows as gay as possible. They are all of 
them dancing and playing ; there are songs, and the 
teachers and mothers are extremely busy seeing that it 
all goes off well. The young foliage and the flowering 
shrubs are at their loveliest ; the grass is greener than 
anything ever was, and the sheep upon it, with their 
lambs at their sides, are enjoying it thoroughly. Big 
grey squirrels feed out of the little hands stretched 
towards them by the children, and in the branches 
birds are singing and building, as though it were 
the real country, and not just a slice out of the 
city — this lovely stretch of hills and meadows, lake and 
wood. On a big shallow pond farther up boys are 
sailing little vessels of every description — some taller 
than the owners, with a great spread of snowy sail ; 
others the tiniest bits of things. Paths winding under 
arched trellises, covered with wistaria and sweet with 

78 



Impressions 

lilac, lead in various directions, and on the driveways a 
constant stream of carriages and motors slips by, while 
horseback riders trot along the bridle-paths. Elsewhere 
boys are playing baseball, and the tennis-courts are 
full, while crowds sit near to watch the play. Unend- 
ing baby-carriages, watched over by neat maids and 
nurses, pass back and forth on all the walks, or linger 
at the edge of the lakes to see the swans and ducks 
swimming about. The brilliant sun falls warmly 
through the mesh of leaves, and the soft breeze is sweet 
with the smell of young bloom. 

Or perhaps it is late of a Saturday afternoon down 
on the East Side, and the push-cart market is in 
full swing. Dark, foreign-looking men, women and 
children are packed closely on the sidewalks, and spill 
numerously over into the middle of the street. An 
intolerable noise of bargaining fills the ears ; arms swing 
wildly ; people push and struggle. Every imaginable 
thing is heaped on the various carts : articles of dress — 
furs, hats, shoes ; everything to eat, cooked and raw — 
shining fish, chickens, vegetables, fruits, sausages. 
There are nicknacks of all kinds, as well as imitation 
jewellery, crockery, bedding, pots and pans. Young 
couples are flirting — the girls in enormous hats and 
cheap finery — the men in derbies and " store clothes," as 
they call the hand-me-downs, or ready-to-wear suits, 
and smoking large cigars or cigarettes. Fat old women 
waddle through the press, shouldering everyone out of 
their way, dressed in bunchy garments, with shawls 
over their heads and carrying market-baskets. A 
group of children are dancing in the middle of the 

79 



New York 

street to the rag-time tune of a hand-organ. As it gets 
dark, flaring torches are lighted by the push-cart 
vendors, throwing queer shadows as the wind blows the 
smoky flame. It might be a Polish city scene, but it 
is just as much New York as the theatre crowd pouring 
out into Broadway far up-town. 

Then, there is Brooklyn Bridge about five-thirty 
in the afternoon, just as the workers are hurrying 
home to Brooklyn from their day's toil in Lower 
Manhattan. A veritable ocean of humanity is flowing 
steadily, irresistibly across City Hall Park, along Park 
Row, down from the elevated stations and upward 
from the subway exits, all toward the bridge-entrances, 
in order to board the trains and cars that run across it, 
or else making for the promenade if they intend to 
walk across the river — a walk of about a mile from one 
end of the bridge to the other. The view up and 
down stream during this walk is glorious, down across 
the harbour and the end of Manhattan Island, with all 
its myriad lights, and up to the other big bridges that 
span the river one beyond another. 

On the platforms and in the trains the crowds are 
terrific, equalling those in the subway. Caught in this 
tide of home-goers, you are swept along helplessly, and 
fairly lifted into the car that stops but a minute to load 
up with its human freight, and speeds away to make 
room for another. People have been crushed to death 
on this bridge or swept off the platforms under the 
wheels of the trains ; but the new bridges have 
somewhat relieved the pressure. Over Brooklyn 
Bridge alone, however, 250,000 persons pass every 

80 




DECORATION DAY PARADE, RIVERSIDE DRIVE. PAGE 



Impressions 

day, and when you realize that most of these want 
to cross at the rush hours, it is easy to imagine that the 
crush must be severe. 

Or, another picture : Thundering down the street 
comes the fire-engine, its bells clanging hoarsely, its 
three mighty horses at a gallop, the men hanging on 
anyhow, getting the last buttons of their uniforms 
snapped into place and pulling on their helmets. The 
driver steers his way through the crowded street with 
marvellous skill, the traffic-police stopping the carts 
and carriages and cars, and people standing to look, or 
even following at a run if the fire is within reach. 
Behind comes the hook and ladder, whirling miracu- 
lously around corners, and where the fire is a big one 
the fire chief, in his red automobile, passes like a fiend, 
gone before you fairly see him. 

The New York Fire Service is the best in the world, 
and no pains are spared with it. There is a fire college, 
where the most modern methods of fighting fire are 
taught, and where the men learn how to fight the 
dangers of the city's immense electric and gas wires 
and mains ; also, how to use the new high-pressure 
water-power, with its capacity for throwing a stream of 
water even to the top of the sky-scrapers through 
enormous hose, and everything else possible in regard 
to their profession. 

A visit to an engine-house during a fire-alarm is 
a thrilling experience. The men sleep over the engine- 
room, in a chamber that is connected to the room below 
by circular openings, having a pole running up through 
the centre. When the alarm sounds, the men spring 

NY. 8 1 II 



New York 

from their beds into their boots, that are attached to 
their trousers and placed ready at the bedside. Grasp- 
ing their coats and helmets, they slip down the poles to 
their places on the engine. In the meanwhile the 
same alarm has automatically released the horses, who 
immediately gallop to their places in the shafts. The 
harness is suspended above them, and falls at a touch 
from the guard who is on watch below. Another snap 
or two, and it is fastened upon the horses, and in less 
time than you can think of, a few seconds after the 
first note sounded by the alarm, the engine is off on its 
mission. 

I have given you a glimpse of the subway crowds, 
but the system itself is worth seeing. The stations 
are large and airy, decorated with shining white tiles 
and mosaic patterns in colour, and brilliantly lighted 
with electricity. The trains move very fast, and there 
are practically no changes required. One may travel 
from the Borough Hall in Brooklyn, under the East 
River and the whole of Manhattan, under the Harlem 
River, and out on the elevated part of the road in 
the Bronx as far as Two-Hundred-and- Fiftieth Street, 
a distance of about fifteen miles, without change of 
cars and for the single fare of five cents, or twopence- 
halfpenny. Moreover, if you choose to return without 
leaving the last station you may travel the whole way 
without paying another fare. 

The tubes under the Hudson are differently con- 
structed, and not so noisy as the subway, since the 
trains are run in separate tubes each way, and do not 
pass each other in the same tunnel, as in the subway. 

82 



Impr 



essions 



The cars are of steel, with concrete floors, and are fire- 
proof. After you get out of the tube trains you have 
to walk some distance to the Jersey stations, and this 
walk is through a long passage walled with white tiles, 
having lights set in the low, arched roof. As you 
walk along the passage curves out of sight, and it is 
for all the world like the passage along which Alice in 
Wonderland followed the White Rabbit. You would 
not be a bit surprised to see him hurrying along in 
front of you, looking at his watch and muttering, " I 
shall be late — I know I shall," which is usually just 
what you are thinking in regard to yourself. 

Another day a parade is going on, and Fifth Avenue 
is prettily decorated with flags and greens ; grand-stands 
are erected here and there, and every inch of room is 
crowded with people. First come the mounted police, 
splendid-looking men, of picked size and strength, on 
fine horses. They ride like soldiers and keep a perfect 
alignment. Then the regiments, one by one, with their 
bands and colours. The music sounds gaily and the 
march goes by briskly. The crowd looks on silently, 
for the New York crowd rarely cheers. People lean 
out of windows and wave handkerchiefs, and the roofs 
carry their load of onlookers, who peer down into the 
street. The militia goes by, and usually a detachment 
of West Point cadets, in their neat grey and white 
uniforms, moving like clockwork. West Point is the 
military school of America. 

On the pavement vendors squeeze in and out 
among the crowd, trying to sell their flags and buttons, 
or perhaps their fruit and peanuts. The sun glints and 

83 



New York 

glimmers on arms and accoutrements, on the horses' 
trappings, on the musical instruments. A detachment 
of sailors swings along, and proves to be the favour- 
ite with everyone. Someone throws confetti from a 
window, and presently the air is full of it, and of long 
paper ribbons that fall over the shoulders of the march- 
ing men, to the amusement of the waiting throngs. 
Then along comes the tail of the procession, followed 
by the crowd, that falls in after it, keeping time to the 
band. New York is rather given to processions, big 
ones occurring on St. Patrick's Day, when all the Irish 
turn out ; on Memorial Day, May 30, a day devoted 
to the memory of soldiers dead in the wars ; and 
on July 4, or Independence Day, with many other 
special ones. 

Perhaps one of the unforgettable sights of New York 
is that to be had on a misty November evening from the 
deck of one of the New Jersey ferry-boats. Beneath you 
is the surging water, in which float huge cakes of ice that 
have come down-stream from the North ; around are 
other boats of all sizes and shapes, throwing red and 
green lights on the waves ; and before you, dim and 
mysterious through the mist, towers the city, glimmer- 
ing with a million lights. More than anything it 
resembles a mountain on whose mighty slopes hundreds 
of little houses have been built. Through the grey 
fog everything is indistinct and looms larger than 
reality. The snowy banners of steam escaping over 
the lofty roofs mingle with the mist, and seem to be 
white ghosts floating above the turrets and towers, 
whose illuminated outlines are but faintly indicated. 

84 



Impressions 

Everything is magic, weird, unreal. Nowhere else on 
earth is there such a sight, and its wonderful beauty 
falls upon you like a spell. 

Huge, and made up of many different nations and 
materials, unfinished still and raw, growing and chang- 
ing day by day, pressed by a thousand problems whose 
solution she must find for herself, since they have only 
now come into existence, beautiful with a new beauty 
and ugly with a needless ugliness, New York has 
much to do and much to learn. Interesting she is, 
beyond dispute. It is impossible to be indifferent 
about her ; she is loved or hated by those who know 
her. Even her little children are quick and sharp 
beyond what a child should be ; and yet there is a 
curious ideal touch to her citizens, an imagination, 
something even romantic. New York will try any- 
thing, and believes it can do anything. Art flourishes 
in the Bohemian quarters and is discussed with an 
eagerness resembling that of Paris in the funny little 
French and Italian restaurants that are tucked away in 
corners and known only to the few. New York 
holds many shows and offers many prizes, and many a 
treasure from old lands has found its way into the 
private and public galleries. The city's politics have 
been as bad as anything in America, but the time of 
good government appears to be dawning. In business 
and commerce New York leads America and the world. 
In the true knowledge of how to live, in leisure and wide 
culture, it is far behind the cities of Europe, although 
in material ease, in the use of all modern inventions, in 

85 



New York 

housekeeping improvements and time-saving articles, 
it far exceeds them. 

New York is never depressing. Even the poorest 
quarters have a cheerfulness about them. The Bowery, 
which is the lower part of Third Avenue and runs 
through the poor part of the East Side, is amusing in 
spite of its poverty, even its wickedness. The Bowery 
Tough is a type of man who has become famous for a 
certain wit, quick humour, and courage. 

The advancing tide of business and the increasing 
facilities for getting cheaply to the outlying districts 
are gradually sweeping away New York's tenements ; 
but even at their worst and most crowded they have a 
touch of light-heartedness not found in other great 
cities. This is partly due to the mixed population, 
with its leavening of the easy-going Latin races, and 
partly to the feeling that there is always a chance to 
do better. A trip through the Italian quarter on one 
of the festal days is a revelation of the fun even the 
very poor can take from the simplest sources. All the 
women and children are so gaily dressed ; there are 
bands playing and confetti is flying about ; while the 
religious procession is picturesque in the extreme, and 
everyone is in the highest of spirits, smiling at you as 
you pass, offering a flower or a greeting. 

And now it is time to stop. In a book like this it 
is necessary to leave out so much that one can but 
wonder whether one has succeeded in putting in any- 
thing. I hope I have managed to make you all feel 
that New York is a real place, like, and yet different 
from, other cities. She is but at the beginning of her 

86 -° 



Impressions 

full development. Even the next ten years will see 
vast improvements. Her subway system is to be more 
than doubled ; a huge new Post Office and a whole 
group of municipal buildings are to be built ; a bridge 
is planned over the Hudson, and new tunnels under 
both rivers. She is asking of her citizens a greater 
regard for harmony and beauty in private enterprise, 
and is working with a clearer understanding of the 
needs of the future. Above all, she is growing more 
honest, and insisting that the men who rule her shall be 
clean business men with good records. 

And New York is like anything or anyone in the 
world, in the fact that those who dislike her can find 
plenty to blame, and those to whom she is dear plenty 
to praise. 



BILLING AND SONS, LIMITED, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD 











MAY 1998 
BBftftEEFER 



PRESERVATION TECHNOLOGIES. L.P. 
1 1 1 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724)779-2111 




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